SH30IH1 


A SPOILED  PRIEST 

& OTHER  STORIES 


\ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/spoiledpriestothOOshee 


His  Face  was  Ashen,  his  Hands  were  Cold  and 
Trembling.”  Page  14. 


A SPOILED  PRIEST 
8?  OTHER  STORIES 


Vv 

-GV 


BY  THE  REV. 

P.  A.  SHEEHAN,  D.D.^  ^ 

5 t 

AUTHOR  OF  “THE  TRIUMPH  OF  FAILURE” 

“MYU$EW  CURATE,”  ETC. 

V 


NINE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

d*> 


// 


BY  M.  HEALY 

ip  ob4; 

/o 

r/  e ,'/4 


* 


V// 


•T 


% 


BENZIGER  BROTHERS 
NEW  YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO 
l9°5 


PR 

S3  7 7 

- 5 -T 

'S  6 
/ 


CONTENTS 


A SPOILED  PRIEST 

A THOROUGH  GENTLEMAN  . . . 

THE  MONKS  OF  TRABOLGAN  . 
RITA,  THE  STREET-SINGER  . . . 

REMANDED 

HOW  THE  ANGEL  BECAME  HAPPY  . 
FRANK  FORREST'S  MINCE-PIE  . . 


PAGE 

1 

27 

43 

86 

136 

168 

191 


TOPSY 


204 


Illustrations 


The  Spoiled  Priest 

“His  face  was  ashen,  his  hands  were  cold 

and  trembling" Frontispiece 

PAGE 

“A  yell  broke  from  three  hundred  boys  as  they 
rushed  pelhmell  from  school"  ....  2 

“One  tremendous  salvo  of  cheers  and  then  a 

glorious  holiday" 2 

“And  this  little  man  must  come  too"  ...  4 

“He  wrapped  him  round  with  the  folds  of  his 

great  Maynooth  cloak" 5 

A Thorough  Gentleman 

“This  gentleman  belongs  to  your  party?"  . . 34 

Rita 

“And  where  does  Rita  come  from?"  . . .88 

“She  sat  by  the  window  looking  earnestly  across 
the  track  of  light  the  sun  was  making  on  the 
waters" . 97 

“Rita  I " 13s 


A SPOILED  PRIEST* 


I 

He  kept  his  school  in  a large  town  in  the 
county  Waterford.  His  range  of  attainments  was 
limited  ; but  what  he  knew  he  knew  well,  and 
could  impart  it  to  his  pupils.  He  did  his  duty 
conscientiously  by  constant,  unremitting  care, 
and  he  emphasised  his  teachings  by  frequent 
appeals  to  the  ferule. 

However,  on  one  day  in  midsummer  it  would 
be  clearly  seen  that  all  hostilities  were  sus- 
pended and  a truce  proclaimed.  This  one  day 
in  each  year  was  eagerly  looked  forward  to  by 
the  boys.  The  master  would  come  in,  dressed 
in  his  Sunday  suit,  with  a white  rose  in  his 
button-hole,  and  on  his  lips  a smile — a deep, 

* This  is  the  term  used  in  some  parts  of  the  country  to  express 
the  failure  of  a student  who  has  just  put  his  foot  within  the  precincts 
of  the  sanctuary,  and  been  rejected.  Up  to  quite  a recent  period 
such  an  ill-fated  youth  was  regarded  by  the  peasantry  with  a certain 
amount  of  scorn,  not  unmingled  with  superstition.  Happily,  larger 
ideas  are  being  developed  even  on  this  subject ; and  not  many  now 
believe  that  no  good  fortune  can  ever  be  the  lot  of  him  who  has 
made  the  gravest  initial  mistake  of  his  life. 


A 


2 


A Spoiled  Priest 

broad,  benevolent  smile — which,  to  preserve  his 
dignity,  he  would  vainly  try  to  conceal.  No 
implement  of  torture  was  visible  on  that  day  ; 
and  the  lessons  were  repeated,  not  with  the  usual 
rigid  formalism  but  in  a perfunctory  manner,  ad 
tempus  terendum.  Twelve  o’clock  would  strike, 
the  master  would  smite  the  desk  and  cry  : 

“ Donovan,  take  the  wheelbarrow  and  bring 
down  Master  Kevin’s  portmanteau  from  the 
station.” 

Then  there  was  anarchy.  Forms  were  upset, 
desks  overturned,  caps  flung  high  as  the  rafters, 
and  a yell,  such  as  might  be  given  by  Comanches 
around  the  stake,  broke  from  three  hundred  boys 
as  they  rushed  pell-mell  from  the  school.  The 
master  would  make  a feeble  effort  at  restoring 
order,  but  his  pride  in  his  boy,  coming  home 
from  Maynooth,  stifled  the  habitual  tyranny 
which  brooked  no  disobedience  or  disorder.  In 
two  long  lines  the  boys,  under  the  command 
of  some  natural  leader,  would  be  drawn  up  in 
front  of  the  school.  In  half-an-hour  the  wheel- 
barrow and  trunk  would  be  rolled  up  the 
gravelled  walk ; then  the  expected  hero  would 
appear.  One  tremendous  salvo  of  cheers,  and 
then  a glorious  holiday  ! 


A Yell  broke  from  Three  Hundred  Boys  as  they 
Rushed  Pell-mell  from  School.”  To  face  page  2. 


“ One  Tremendous  Salvo  of  Cheers  and  then  a 
Glorious  Holiday.”  To  iace  page  5. 


A Spoiled  Priest 


3 


ii 

There  was,  however,  amongst  these  young  lads, 
one  to  whom  the  home-coming  of  the  Maynooth 
student  was  of  special  interest.  He  was  a fair- 
haired, delicate  boy,  with  large,  wistful  blue 
ej^es,  that  looked  at  you  as  if  they  saw  some- 
thing behind  and  beyond  you.  He  was  a bit 
of  a dreamer,  too  ; and  when  the  other  lads 
were  shouting  at  play,  he  went  alone  to  some 
copse  or  thicket,  and  with  a book,  or  more  often 
without  one,  would  sit  and  think,  and  look 
dreamily  at  floating  clouds  or  running  stream, 
and  then,  with  a sigh,  go  back  to  the  weary 
desk  again.  Now,  he  had  one  idol  enshrined 
in  the  most  sacred  recesses  of  his  heart,  and 
that  was  Kevin  O’Donnell.  It  is  quite  probable 
his  worship  commenced  when  he  heard  his  sisters 
at  home  discussing  the  merits  of  this  young 
student  in  that  shy,  half-affectionate,  half- 
reverential  manner  in  which  Irish  girls  are  wont 
to  speak  of  candidates  for  the  priesthood.  And 
when  he  heard,  around  the  winter  fireside,  stories 
of  the  intellectual  prowess  of  his  hero,  in  that 
exaggerated  fashion  which  the  imagination  of 
the  Irish  people  so  much  affects,  he  worshipped 


4 A Spoiled  Priest 

in  secret  this  “ Star  of  the  South,”  and  made 
desperate  vows  on  sleepless  nights  to  emulate 
and  imitate  him.  What,  then,  was  his  delight 
when,  on  one  of  these  glorious  summer  holidays, 
the  tall,  pale-faced  student,  “ lean  ” like  Dante, 
“ from  much  thought,”  came  and  invited  all 
his  friends  to  the  tea  and  music  that  were  dis- 
pensed at  the  school-house  on  Sunday  evenings  ; 
and  when  he  turned  round  and,  placing  his  hand 
on  the  flaxen  curls  of  the  boys,  said  : 

“ And  this  little  man  must  come  too ; I 
insist  on  it.” 

Oh ! those  glorious  summer  evenings,  when 
the  long  yellow  streamers  of  the  sun  lit  up  the 
dingy  school-house,  and  the  master,  no  longer 
the  Rhadamanthus  of  the  ruler  and  rattan,  but 
the  magician  and  conjurer,  drew  the  sweetest 
sounds  from  the  old  violin,  and  the  girls,  in 
their  Sunday  dresses,  swept  round  in  dizzy 
circles  ; when  the  tea  and  lemonade,  and  such 
fairy  cakes  went  round ; and  the  hero,  in  his 
long  black  coat,  came  over  and  asked  the  child 
how  he  enjoyed  himself,  and  the  boy  thought 
it  was  heaven,  or  at  least  the  vestibule  and 
atrium  thereof.  But  even  this  fairy-land  was 
nothing  to  the  home-coming,  when  the  great  tall 


“ And  This  Little  Man  must 
Come  too.”  To  face  page  4. 


“ He  Wrapped  Him  Round  with  the 
Folds  of  his  Great  Maynooth  Cloak.’* 
To  face  page  5. 


A Spoiled  Priest  5 

student  lifted  the  sleepy  boy  on  his  shoulders, 
and  wrapped  him  round  against  the  night  air 
with  the  folds  of  his  great  Maynooth  cloak,  that 
was  clasped  with  brass  chains  that  ran  through 
lions’  heads,  and  took  him  out  under  the  stars, 
and  the  warm  summer  air  played  around  them  ; 
and  in  a delicious  half-dream  they  went  home, 
and  the  child  dreamt  of  fairy  princesses  and 
celestial  music,  and  all  was  incense  and  adula- 
tion before  his  idol  and  prodigy.  Ah ! the 
dreams  of  childhood.  What  a heaven  they  would 
make  this  world,  if  only  children  could  speak, 
and  if  only  their  elders  would  listen  ! 

So  two  or  three  years  sped  by,  and  then  came 
a rude  shock.  For  one  day  in  the  early  summer, 
the  day  on  which  the  students  were  expected 
home,  and  the  boys  were  on  the  tiptoe  of  ex- 
pectation for  their  glorious  holiday,  a quiet, 
almost  inaudible  whisper  went  round  that  there 
was  something  wrong.  The  master  came  into 
school  in  his  ordinary  dress  ; there  was  no  rose 
in  his  button-hole ; he  was  quiet,  painfully, 
pitifully  quiet ; he  looked  aged,  arid  there  were 
a few  wrinkles  round  his  mouth  never  seen 
before.  A feeling  of  awe  crept  over  the  faces 
of  the  boys.  They  feared  to  speak.  The  sight 


6 


A Spoiled  Priest 

of  the  old  man  going  around  listlessly,  without 
a trace  of  the  old  fury,  touched  them  deeply. 
They  would  have  preferred  one  of  his  furious 
explosions  of  passion.  Once  in  the  morning  he 
lifted  the  rattan  to  a turbulent  young  ruffian, 
but,  after  swishing  it  in  the  air,  he  let  it  fall, 
like  one  paralysed,  to  the  ground,  and  then  he 
broke  the  stick  across  his  knees,  and  flung  the 
fragments  from  the  window.  The  boys  could 
have  cried  for  him.  He  dismissed  them  at 
twelve  o’clock,  and  they  dispersed  without  a 
cheer. 

What  was  it  all  ? Was  Kevin  dead  ? 

By-and-by,  in  whispers  around  the  hearth,  he 
heard  that  Kevin  was  coming  home  no  more. 
Some  one  whispered  : “ He  was  expelled  ; ” but 
this  supposition  was  rejected  angrily.  “ He 
would  never  be  priested,”  said  another. 

“ Why  ? ” 

“ No  one  knows.  The  professors  won’t  tell.” 

And  some  said  they  expected  it  all  along. 
“ These  great  stars  fall  sometimes ; he  was  too 
proud  and  stuck-up,  he  wouldn’t  spake  to  the 
common  people — the  ould  neighbours.”  But  in 
most  hearts  there  was  genuine  regret,  and  the 
truest  sympathy  for  the  poor  father  and  mother, 


A Spoiled  Priest  7 

to  whom  this  calamity  meant  the  deepest  dis- 
grace. They  would  never  lift  their  heads  again. 
Often,  for  hours  together,  Kevin’s  mother  would 
linger  around  the  fireside,  receiving  such  sym- 
pathy as  only  Irish  hearts  can  give.  Her  moans 
sank  deep  into  the  soul  of  the  listening  child. 

“ Sure  I thought  that  next  Sunday  I would 
see  my  poor  boy  in  vestments  at  the  altar  of 
God,  and  then  I could  die  happy.  Oh,  wirra, 
wirra  ! O Kevin  ! Kevin  ! what  did  you  do  ? 
what  did  you  do  at  all,  at  all  ? When  he  was  a 
little  weeshy  fellow  he  used  to  be  playing  at 
saying  Mass — ‘ Dominus  vobiscum,’  and  his  little 
sisters  used  to  be  serving.  Once  his  father  beat 
him  because  he  thought  it  wasn’t  right.  And  I 
said  : ‘ Let  the  boy  alone,  James  ; sure  you 
don’t  know  what  God  has  in  store  for  him. 
Who  knows  but  one  day  we’ll  be  getting  his 
blessing.’  Oh,  my  God,  Thy  will  be  done ! ” 

“ How  do  you  know  yet  ? ” the  friends  would 
say  ; “ perhaps  he’s  only  gone  to  Dublin,  and 
may  be  home  to-morrow.” 

“ Thank  you  kindly,  ma’am,  but  no.  Sure  his 
father  read  the  letter  for  me.  ‘ Good-bye,  father,’ 
it  said  ; ‘ good-bye,  mother  ; you’ll  never  see  me 
again.  But  I’ve  done  nothing  to  disgrace  ye. 


8 


A Spoiled  Priest 

Would  father  let  me  see  his  face  once  more  ? 
I’ll  be  passing  by  on  the  mail  to-morrow  on 
my  way  to  America.’  ” 

“ And  did  he  go  to  see  him  ? ” 

“ Oh  no ! he  wouldn’t.  His  heart  was  that 
black  against  his  son  he  swore  he  should  never 
see  his  face  again.” 

“ Wisha,  then,”  the  women  would  say,  “ how 
proud  he  is ! What  did  the  poor  boy  do  ? I 
suppose  he  never  made  a mistake  himself, 
indeed ! ” 

But  the  young  girls  kept  silent.  They  had 
mutely  taken  down  the  idol  from  their  shrine, 
or  rather  drawn  the  dark  veil  of  pitying  forget- 
fulness over  it.  A student  refused  Orders  was 
something  too  terrible.  The  star  had  fallen  in 
the  sea. 

His  little  friend,  however,  was  loyal  to  the 
heart’s  core.  He  knew  that  his  hero  had  done 
no  wrong.  He  was  content  to  wait  and  see  him 
justified.  He  would  have  given  anything  to 
have  been  able  to  say  a parting  word.  If  he 
had  known  Kevin  was  passing  by,  shrouded  in 
shame,  he  would  have  made  his  way  to  the 
station  and  braved  even  the  hissing  engine,  that 
was  always  such  a terror  to  him,  to  touch  the 


A Spoiled  Priest  9 

hand  of  his  friend  once  more  and  assure  him 
of  his  loyalty.  He  thought  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  of  the  lonely  figure  crossing  the  dread 
Atlantic ; and  his  nurse  was  sure  he  was  in  for 
a fit  of  illness,  for  the  boy  moaned  in  his  sleep, 
and  there  were  tears  on  his  cheeks  at  midnight. 

But  from  that  day  his  son’s  name  never  passed 
the  father’s  lips.  He  had  uttered  in  his  own  mind 
the  cold,  iron  sentence : “Non  ragioniam  di  lor.” 


Ill 

The  years  sped  on  relentlessly.  Never  a word 
came  from  the  exiled  student.  In  a few  months 
the  heart-broken  mother  died.  The  great  school 
passed  into  the  hands  of  monks  ; and  the  master, 
in  his  old  age,  had  to  open  a little  school  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  town.  Families  had  been  broken 
up  and  dispersed,  and  event  after  event  had 
obliterated  every  vestige  of  the  little  tragedy, 
even  to  the  names  of  the  chief  actors  or  sufferers. 
But  in  the  heart  of  the  little  boy,  Kevin 
O’Donnell’s  name  was  written  in  letters  of  fire 
and  gold.  His  grateful  memory  held  fast  its 
hero.  Then  he,  too,  had  to  go  to  college — and 
for  the  priesthood.  On  his  very  entrance  into 


io  A Spoiled  Priest 

his  Diocesan  Seminary  he  was  asked  his  name 
and  birthplace.  When  he  mentioned  the  latter, 
a young  Professor  exclaimed  : 

“ Why,  Kevin  O’Donnell  was  from  there  ! ” 
The  boy  nearly  choked.  A few  weeks  after, 
his  heart  in  his  mouth,  he  timidly  approached 
the  Professor,  and  asked  : 

“ Did  you  know  Kevin  O’Donnell  ? ” 

“ Why,  of  course,”  said  the  priest ; “ he  was 
a class-fellow  of  mine.” 

“ What  was — was — thought  of  him  in  May- 
nooth  ? ” 

“ Why,  that  he  was  the  cleverest,  ablest, 
jolliest,  dearest  fellow  that  ever  lived.  You 
couldn’t  help  loving  him.  He  swept  the  two 
soluses  in  his  logic  year,  led  his  class  up  to  the 
second  year’s  divinity,  then  fell  away,  but  again 
came  to  the  front  easily  in  his  fourth.  We  used 
to  say  that  he  ‘ thought  in  Greek.’  ” 

“ And  why  did  he  leave  ? Why  wasn’t  he 
ordained  ? ” 

“ Ah ! there’s  the  mystery,  and  it’s  a clever 
man  that  could  answer  it.  No  one  knows.” 
They  became  great  friends  by  reason  of  this 
common  love  for  the  disgraced  student,  and  one 
evening  in  the  early  summer  the  Professor  told 


A Spoiled  Priest  1 1 

the  boy  all  he  knew.  He  had  an  attentive 
listener.  The  conversation  came  around  in  this 
way.  Something  in  the  air,  or  the  glance  of 
the  sun,  or  some  faint  perfume  of  hyacinth  or 
early  rose,  awoke  remembrances  in  the  mind  of 
the  boy,  and  he  said,  as  they  sat  under  some 
dwarfed  elms  : 

“ This  reminds  me  of  Kevin  and  his  holidays 
at  home.  The  same  summer  evening,  the  same 
sunlight — only  a little  faded  to  me — the  old 
school-room  lighted  up  by  the  sunset,  the  little 
musical  parties,  the  young  ladies  in  their  white 
dresses,  my  head  swimming  round  as  they  danced 

by  in  polka  and  schottische ” 

“ Ha  ! ” said  the  Professor.  But,  recovering 
himself,  he  said  hastily  : 

“ Well,  go  on  ! ” 

“ Oh,  nothing  more  ! ” said  the  boy  ; “ but 
my  homeward  rides  on  Kevin’s  shoulders,  and 
the  long  folds  of  his  cloak  wrapped  around  me, 
and — and — how  I worshipped  him  ! ” 

There  was  a pause,  the  Professor  looking  very 
solemn  and  thoughtful. 

“ But,  father,”  said  the  boy,  “ you  never  told 
me.  How  did  it  all  happen  ? ” 

“ This  way,”  said  the  Professor,  shaking  him- 


12 


A Spoiled  Priest 

self  from  his  reverie.  “ You  must  know,  at 
least  you  will  know  some  time,  that  there  is  in 
Maynooth  one  day — a day  of  general  judgment, 
a ‘ Dies  irae,  dies  ilia  ’ — before  which  the  terrors 
of  Jehoshaphat,  far  away  as  they  are,  pale  into 
utter  insignificance.  It  is  the  day  of  the  ‘ Order 
list  ’ — or,  in  plainer  language,  it  is  the  dread 
morning  when  those  who  are  deemed  worthy 
are  called  to  Orders,  and  those  who  are  deemed 
unworthy  are  rejected.  It  is  a serious  ordeal  to 
all.  Even  the  young  logician,  who  is  going  to 
be  called  to  tonsure  only,  looks  with  fearful 
uncertainty  to  his  chances.  It  is  always  a sting- 
ing disgrace  to  be  set  aside — or,  in  college  slang, 
‘ to  be  clipped.’  But  for  the  fourth  year’s  divine 
who  is  finishing  his  course,  it  is  the  last  chance ; 
and  woe  to  him  if  he  fails  ! He  goes  out  into 
the  world  with  the  brand  of  shame  upon  him, 
and  men  augur  no  good  of  his  future.  Now,  our 
friend  Kevin  had  been  unmercifully  ‘ clipped  ’ 
up  to  the  last  day.  Why,  we  could  not  ascertain. 
He  was  clever ; too  clever.  He  had  no  great 
faults  of  character ; he  was  a little  careful, 
perhaps  foppish,  in  his  dress  ; he  affected  a good 
deal  of  culture  and  politeness  ; but,  so  far  as 
we  could  see,  and  students  are  the  best  judges, 


A Spoiled  Priest  1 3 

there  was  nothing  in  his  conduct  or  character 
to  unfit  him  for  the  sacred  office.  But  we  don’t 
know.  There  are  no  mistakes  made  in  that 
matter.  Students  who  are  unfit  sometimes  steal 
into  the  sanctuary,  but  really  fit  and  worthy 
students  are  never  rejected.  There  may  be  mis- 
takes in  selection  ; there  are  none  in  rejection. 
Well,  the  fateful  morning  came.  We  were  all 
praying  for  poor  Kevin.  The  most  impenetrable 
silence  is  kept  by  the  Professors  on  this  matter. 
Neither  by  word  nor  sign  could  we  guess  what 
chances  he  had ; and  this  added  to  our  dread 
interest  in  him.  In  fact,  nothing  else  was  talked 
of  but  Kevin’s  chances ; and  I remember  how 
many  and  how  diverse  were  the  opinions  enter- 
tained about  them.  The  bell  rang,  and  we  all 
trooped  into  the  Senior  Prayer  Hall.  We  faced 
the  altar,  three  hundred  and  fifty  anxious 
students,  if  I except  the  deacons  and  sub- 
deacons, who,  with  their  books — that  is,  their 
breviaries  — under  their  arms,  looked  jaunty 
enough.  I was  one  of  them,  for  I was  ordained 
Deacon  the  previous  year,  and  I was  certain  of 
my  call  to  Priesthood  ; but  my  heart  was  like 
lead.  Kevin  walked  in  with  me. 

“ ‘ Cheer  up,  old  man,’  I said  ; ‘ I tell  you 


14  A Spoiled  Priest 

it  will  be  all  right.  Come,  sit  near  me.’  His 
face  was  ashen,  his  hands  cold  and  trembling. 
He  picked  up  the  end  of  his  soutane,  and  began 
to  open  and  close  the  buttons  nervously.  The 
superiors — four  Deans,  the  Vice-President,  and 
President — came  in  and  took  their  places  in  the 
gallery  behind  us,  and  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
An  awful  silence  filled  the  place.  Then  the 
President  began,  after  a brief  formula,  to  call 
out  rapidly  in  Latin  the  names  of  those  who  were 
selected  ‘ ad  primam  tonsuram.’  He  passed  on  to 
the  Porters,  the  Lectors,  the  Acolytes,  the  Exor- 
cists. Then  came  the  higher  Orders,  and  hearts 
beat  anxiously.  But  this  was  rapidly  over. 
Then  came  the  solemn  words,  ‘ Ad  Presbyter- 
atum.’  Poor  Kevin  dropped  his  soutane,  and 
closed  his  hands  tightly.  My  name  was  read 
out  first  in  alphabetical  order.  Kevin’s  name 
should  come  in  between  the  names  O’Connor  and 
Quinn.  The  President  read  rapidly  down  the 
list,  called  : 

Gulielmus  O’Connor,  Dunensis  ; 

Matthasus  Quinn,  Midensis ; 

and  thus  sentence  was  passed. 

Kevin  was  rejected.  I heard  him  start,  and 
draw  in  his  breath  rapidly  two  or  three  times. 


A Spoiled  Priest  1 5 

I was  afraid  to  look  at  him.  The  list  was  closed. 
The  Superiors  departed,  apparently  heedless  of 
the  dread  desolation  they  had  caused ; for 
nothing  is  so  remarkable  in  our  colleges  as  the 
apparent  utter  indifference  of  Professors  and 
Superiors  to  the  feelings  or  interests  of  the 
students.  I said  ‘ apparent  ’ because,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  keenest  interest  is  felt  in 
every  student  from  his  entrance  to  his  departure. 
He  is  not  only  constantly  under  surveillance, 
but  he  is  spoken  of,  canvassed,  his  character, 
talents,  habits  passed  under  survey  by  those 
grave,  solemn  men,  who  preserve,  in  their  inter- 
course with  the  students,  a sphinx-like  silence 
and  indifference,  which  to  many  is  painful  and 
inexplicable. 

“ Well,  the  ordeal  was  over ; and  we  rose  to 
depart.  Then  Kevin  turned  round  and  looked 
at  me.  He  smiled  in  a ghastly  way,  and  said  : 
‘ This  little  tragedy  is  over.’ 

“ I said  nothing.  Words  would  have  been 
mockery  under  such  a stunning  blow.  Nothing 
else  was  talked  of  in  the  house  for  the  remaining 
days.  There  was  infinite  sympathy  for  poor 
Kevin,  and  even  the  superiors  dropped  the  veil 
of  reserve,  and  spoke  kindly  to  him.  It  is 


1 6 A Spoiled  Priest 

customary  to  ask  some  one  of  the  Superiors  the 
cause  of  rejection.  To  keep  away  from  them 
savours  of  pride.  Kevin  went  to  the  Vice- 
President,  a kindly  old  man,  and  asked  why  he 
was  deemed  unfit  for  Orders.  The  old  priest 
placed  his  hands  on  Kevin’s  shoulders  and  said, 
through  his  tears  : 

“ ‘ Nothing  in  particular,  my  dear  ; but  some 
general  want  of  the  ecclesiastical  manner  and 
spirit.’ 

“ ‘ I haven’t  been  a hypocrite,’  replied  Kevin  ; 
* I wore  my  heart  on  my  sleeve.  Perhaps  if — ’ 
he  said  no  more. 

“ The  examinations  were  over.  The  day  for 
the  distribution  of  prizes  came  on.  The  Bishops 
assembled  in  the  Prayer  Hall.  The  list  of  prize- 
men was  called.  Kevin  was  first  in  Theology, 
first  in  Scripture,  second  in  Ecclesiastical  History, 
first  in  Hebrew.  It  was  a ghastly  farce.  Kevin, 
of  course,  was  not  there.  Later  in  the  day  a 
deputation  of  the  students  of  the  diocese  waited 
on  their  Bishop.  It  was  a most  unusual  pro- 
ceeding. They  asked  the  Bishop  to  ordain  Kevin, 
in  spite  of  the  adverse  decision  of  the  College 
authorities.  They  met  under  the  President’s 
apartments.  The  Bishop,  grave  and  dignified, 


A Spoiled  Priest  17 

listened  with  sympathy,  and  when  their  re- 
presentations had  been  made,  he  said  he  would 
consult  the  President. 

“ It  was  a faint  gleam  of  hope.  They  waited, 
Kevin  in  their  midst,  for  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  hoping,  despairing,  anxious.  The  Bishop 
came  down.  With  infinite  pity  he  looked  at 
Kevin,  and  said  : ‘ I am  sorry,  Mr.  O’Donnell,  I 
can  do  nothing  for  you.  I cannot  contravene  the 
will  of  the  Superiors.’  Then  the  last  hope  fled. 
Next  day  Kevin  was  on  his  way  to  America. 
That  is  all.  You’ll  understand  it  better  when 
you  go  to  Maynooth.” 

He  did  go  in  due  time,  and  he  understood  the 
story  better.  Like  a careful  dramatist,  he  went 
over  scene  after  scene  in  the  College  life  of 
Kevin.  He  found  his  desk,  his  cell  ; he  sought 
out  every  tradition  in  the  College  concerning 
him ; and  that  College,  completely  sequestered 
from  the  outer  world  as  it  is,  is  very  rich  in 
traditions,  and  tenacious  of  them.  He  stood  in 
the  wide  porch  under  the  President’s  apartments 
and  pictured  the  scene  of  Kevin’s  final  dismissal 
from  the  sacred  ministry.  And  the  first  time 
he  sat  in  the  Prayer-Hall,  at  the  calling  of  the 
Order  list,  although  he  himself  was  concerned, 


1 8 A Spoiled  Priest 

he  forgot  everything  but  the  picture  of  his  hero, 
unnerved,  despairing,  and  saw  his  ghastly  smile, 
and  heard  : “ This  little  tragedy  is  over.” 

Once  or  twice  he  ventured  to  ask  one  of  the 
deans  whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  Kevin 
O’Donnell,  and  what  was  the  secret  of  his 
rejection. 

“ Ah  ! yes,  he  knew  him  well.  Clever,  ambiti- 
ous, rather  worldly-minded.  Why  was  he  finally 
thought  unfit  for  Orders  ? Well,  there  were 
various  opinions.  But  no  one  knew.” 

It  happened  that  one  of  the  old  men-servants 
knew  Kevin  well. 

“ Mr.  O’Donnell,  of  C ? A real  gintleman. 

Wouldn’t  ask  you  to  clane  his  boots  without  giving 
you  half-a-crown.  Heard  he  was  a doctor,  doing 
well ; was  married,  and  had  a large  family.” 

“ You  heard  a lie,”  said  the  student,  the 
strongest  expression  he  had  ever  used.  But  the 
thing  rankled  in  his  heart.  Was  his  hero  de- 
throned ? or  was  the  drapery  of  the  veil  drawn 
across  the  shrine  ? No  ; but  he  had  seen  the  feet 
of  clay  under  the  beautiful  statue.  The  Irish 
instinct  cannot  understand  a married  hero — at 
least  in  the  sense  in  which  this  youth  worshipped 
Kevin  O’Donnell  as  a hero. 


A Spoiled  Priest 


!9 


IV 

The  years  rolled  by.  Ah,  those  years,  leaden- 
footed to  the  hot  wishes  of  youth,  how  swiftly, 
with  all  their  clouds  and  shadows,  and  all  their 
misty,  nimble  radiances,  they  roll  by  and  break 
and  dissolve  into  airy  nothings  against  the  azure 
of  eternity ! 

Our  little  hero-worshipper  was  a priest,  and, 
after  some  years,  was  appointed  temporarily  to 
a curacy  in  his  native  parish.  I am  afraid  he 
was  sentimental,  for  he  loved  every  stone  and 
tree  and  bush  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  lived 
in  the  past.  Here  was  the  wall  against  which 
he  had  played  ball — the  identical  smooth  stone, 
which  he  had  to  be  so  careful  to  pick  out ; here 
was  the  rough  crease,  where  they  had  played 
cricket ; here  the  little  valleys  where  they  had 
rolled  their  marbles  ; here  the  tiny  trout-stream, 
where  they  had  fished.  How  small  it  seems  now ! 
What  a broad,  terrible  river  it  was  to  the  child 
of  thirty  years  ago  ! But  he  loved  to  linger 
most  of  all  around  the  old  school-house,  to 
sit  amongst  the  trees  again,  and  to  call  up 
all  the  radiant  dreams  that  float  through  the 
“ moonlight  of  memory.”  Alas  ! all,  or  nearly 


20 


A Spoiled  Priest 

all,  the  companions  of  his  childhood  had  fallen 
or  fled.  The  few  that  remained  he  interrogated 
often  about  the  past.  This,  too,  with  them, 
was  fading  into  a soft  dream.  Their  children 
were  around  their  knees,  and  life  was  terribly 
real  to  them. 

One  night,  again  in  the  soft  summer,  he  was 
suddenly  called  to  the  sick-bed  of  a dying 
woman.  He  hastily  dressed  and  went.  The 
doctor  was  before  him,  but  reverently  made 
way. 

“ It  will  be  slow,  sir,”  he  said,  “ and  I must 
wait.” 

The  young  priest  performed  his  sacred 
duties  to  the  dying  woman,  and  then,  out 
of  sheer  sympathy,  he  remained  sitting  by 
the  fire,  chatting  with  the  husband  of  the 
patient. 

It  appeared  that  the  dispensary  doctor  was 
away  on  another  call,  and  they  had  taken  the 
liberty  to  call  in  this  strange  doctor,  who  had 
been  only  a few  months  in  the  country,  and  had 
taken  Rock  Cottage  for  a few  years.  He  was  a 
tall,  angular  man,  his  face  almost  concealed  under 
a long,  black  beard,  streaked  with  white.  He 
was  a silent  man,  it  appeared,  but  very  clever. 


A Spoiled  Priest  2 1 

The  “ head  doctors  ” in  Cork  couldn’t  hold  a 
candle  to  him.  He  would  take  no  money.  He 
was  very  good  to  the  poor.  His  name  was  Dr. 
Everard. 

The  young  priest  had  seen  him  from  time  to 
time,  but  had  never  spoken  to  him.  Perhaps 
his  curiosity  was  piqued  to  know  a little  more 
of  him ; perhaps  he  liked  him  for  his  kindness 
to  the  poor.  At  any  rate  he  would  remain  and 
walk  home  with  him.  Late  in  the  summer 
night,  or  rather,  early  in  the  summer  dawn,  the 
doctor  came  out  from  the  sick-room  and  asked 
for  water  to  wash  his  hands.  He  started  at 
seeing  the  young  priest  waiting ; and  the  latter 
passed  in  to  the  sick  woman,  who,  now  relieved, 
looked  pleased  and  thankful.  He  said  a few 
kind  words  and  came  out  quickly.  The  doctor 
was  just  swinging  on  his  broad  shoulders  a heavy 
military  cloak  ; and  the  priest,  lifting  his  eyes, 
saw  the  same  old  lions’  heads  and  the  brass 
chain-clasps  that  he  remembered  so  well  in 
Kevin’s  cloak  so  many  years  ago. 

“ Our  roads  lead  in  the  same  direction,”  said 
the  priest.  “ May  I accompany  you  ? ” 

“ Certainly,”  said  the  doctor. 

It  was  a lovely  summer  morning,  dawn  just 


22 


A Spoiled  Priest 

breaking  roseate  and  clear,  preluding  a warm 
day.  The  birds  were  up  and  alert,  trying  to 
get  out  all  the  day’s  programme  of  song  and 
anthem  before  the  dread  heat  should  drive  them 
to  shelter  and  silence.  The  river  rolled  sluggishly 
along,  thin  and  slow  and  underfed,  for  the  moun- 
tains were  dry  and  barren,  and  the  fruitful  clouds 
were  afar.  No  men  were  stirring.  The  shops 
were  closely  shuttered  ; but  here  and  there  a 
lamp,  left  lighted,  looked  sickly  in  the  clear 
dawnlight.  Their  footsteps  rang  hollow  with 
echoes  along  the  street,  and  one  or  two  dogs 
barked  in  muffled  anger  as  the  steps  smote  on 
their  ears.  They  had  been  talking  about  many 
things,  and  the  young  priest  had  mentioned 
casually  that  this  was  his  native  place. 

“ And  there’s  the  very  house  I was  bom  in.” 
The  doctor  stopped,  and  looked  curiously  at  the 
shuttered  house,  as  if  recalling  some  memories. 
But  he  said  nothing. 

At  last  they  left  the  town  ; and  the  priest, 
rambling  on  about  his  reminiscences,  and  the 
other  listening  attentively,  they  came  at  last 
opposite  the  old  school-house,  and  by  some 
spontaneous  impulse  they  rested  their  arms  on 
a rude  gate  and  gazed  towards  it.  Then  the 


A Spoiled  Priest  23 

young  priest  broke  out  into  his  old  rhapsody 
about  the  summer  twilights,  and  the  violin,  and 
the  merry  dances  of  the  girls,  and  all  those 
things  round  which,  commonplace  though  they 
may  be,  memory  flings  a nimbus  of  light  that 
spiritualises  and  beautifies  them.  And  then  his 
own  secret  hero-worship  for  the  great  Kevin, 
and  the  ride  on  his  shoulders  home  from  the 
dance  and  the  supper,  and  the  great  cloak  that 
enveloped  him — 

“ Just  like  yours,  with  the  same  brass  clasps 
and  chains,  that  jingled,  oh ! such  music  in 
my  memory.” 

The  doctor  listened  gravely  and  attentively. 
Then  he  asked  : 

“ And  what  became  of  this  wonderful 
Kevin  ? ” 

And  he  was  told  his  history.  And  how  the 
heart  of  one  faithful  friend  yearned  after  him 
in  his  shame,  and  believed  in  him,  and  knew,  by 
a secret  but  infallible  instinct,  that  he  was  true 
and  good  and  faithful,  although  thrust  from  the 
Sanctuary  in  shame. 

“ We  may  meet  yet,”  continued  the  young 
priest.  “ Of  course  he  could  not  remember  me. 
But  it  was  all  sad,  pitifully  sad  ; and  I am  sure 


24  A Spoiled  Priest 

he  had  grave  trials  and  difficulties  to  overcome. 
You  know  it  is  in  moments  of  depression,  rather 
than  of  exultation,  that  the  great  temptations 
come.” 

“ Good  night,  or  rather  good  morning,”  said 
the  doctor.  “ What  did  you  say  your  hero’s 

name  was  ? Kevin — I think ” 

“ Yes  ; Kevin  O’Donnell,”  said  the  priest. 


V 

A few  weeks  after  the  doctor  disappeared,  and 
Rock  Cottage  was  closed  again.  Twelve  months 
later  the  young  priest  was  dining  with  his  Bishop, 
and  the  latter  asked  him  : 

“ Did  you  ever  hear  of  a Kevin  O’Donnell, 
from  your  town  ? ” 

“ Yes,  of  course,  my  Lord.  He  was  a May- 
nooth  student  many  years  ago.” 

“ Well,  here  is  a letter  from  him,  from  Florence, 
demanding  his  exeat,  in  order  that  he  may  be 
ordained  priest.” 

A rush  of  tumultuous  delight  flushed  the  cheeks 
of  the  young  priest,  but  he  only  said  : “ I knew 
’twould  come  all  right  in  the  end.” 

He  went  home.  There  was  a letter  on  his 


A Spoiled  Priest  25 

desk.  Florence  was  the  post-mark.  With 
trembling  fingers  he  read  : — 


“Certosa,  Firenze, 

July  12,  187-. 

“ Friend  and  Child, — You  have  saved  a 
soul ! And  it  is  the  soul  of  your  early  friend, 
Kevin.  Embittered  and  disappointed,  I left 
Ireland  many  years  ago.  Not  one  kindly  word 
nor  friendly  grasp  was  with  me  in  my  farewell. 
I came  back  to  Ireland,  successful  as  to  worldly 
affairs,  but  bitter  and  angry  towards  God  and 
man.  I had  but  one  faith  left — to  do  good  in 
a world  where  I had  received  naught  but  evil. 
Your  faith  in  me  has  revived  my  faith  in  God. 
I see  now  that  we  are  in  His  hands.  If  a 
little  child  could  retain  the  memory  of  small 
kindnesses  for  thirty  years,  can  we  think  that 
the  great  All-Father  has  forgotten  ? You  are 
puzzled  ; you  do  not  know  me.  Well,  I am 
the  doctor  with  the  great  cloak,  who  accom- 
panied you  from  a sick-call  some  months  ago. 
I did  not  know  you.  I had  forgotten  your 
name.  But  while  you  spoke,  and  showed  me 
how  great  was  your  fidelity  and  love,  my  heart 
thawed  out  towards  God  and  man.  I left 


2 6 


A Spoiled  Priest 

hurriedly  and  hastened  here.  I am,  thank  God, 
a professed  Carthusian,  and  the  Orders  denied 
me  in  Maynooth  Prayer-Hall  thirty  years  ago 
I shall  receive  in  a few  days. 

“ Farewell,  and  thank  God  for  a gentle  heart. 
You  never  know  where  its  dews  may  fall,  and 
bring  to  life  the  withered  grass  or  the  faded 
flower. — Yours  in  Christ, 

“ Kevin  O’Donnell  (late  Dr.  Everard.)” 


A THOROUGH  GENTLEMAN 


Some  time  towards  the  end  of  the  Parliamentary 
Session,  188-,  I found  myself  in  London,  on 
the  way  to  Switzerland.  I was  not  long  in  the 
great  Babylon  when  I knocked  up  against  an 
old  schoolmate,  now  developed  into  an  august 
Member  of  the  British  Parliament.  It  was  in 
the  evening,  the  place  was  the  Strand ; and  I 
remember  well  what  an  impression  it  made  upon 
me,  when,  as  we  strolled  up  and  down  the 
crowded  thoroughfare,  he  pointed  out  to  me 
group  after  group  of  Irish  Members  moving 
quietly  along  in  twos  and  threes,  clearly  strangers 
in  a strange  land.  It  was  a day  off  (Wednesday, 
I think),  and  I expressed  my  surprise  that  they 
should  not  seize  the  opportunity  to  scatter 
themselves,  and  enjoy  the  hospitality  of  many 
houses  which  would  be  glad  to  open  their  doors 
to  them.  My  friend  smiled. 

“ There  is  not  one  house  in  London  to-night,” 
he  said,  “ that  would  entertain  them  ; and  what 


28  A Thorough  Gentleman 

is  more,  not  one  of  them  would  accept  such 
entertainment  if  proffered.  It  is  war  time  ; and 
in  war  you  don’t  sit  down  to  dinner  with  your 
enemies.” 

It  impressed  me  deeply.  My  heart  went  out 
to  these  Irish  guerrilleros,  isolated  and  banned 
on  the  London  streets. 

“ That  reminds  me,”  said  my  friend,  “ you 
and  I are  not  at  war,  though  we  had  many  a 
tough  battle  in  days  gone  by.  Come  along 
here  ; I know  a cosy  comer  where  we  can  dine.” 
We  left  the  Strand,  and  he  took  me  along 
until  we  came  to  a modest,  but  evidently  quite 
new,  little  French  cafe  off  Oxford  Street.  It  was 
pretty  full  when  we  entered.  There  was  but 
one  table  vacant,  far  over  in  a dim,  dusky  comer, 
and  we  at  once  made  our  way  towards  it. 

“ We  get  an  excellent  dinner  here,”  he  said, 
“ and  at  a singularly  moderate  price.” 

He  lifted  his  hand,  and  the  waiter  came  over. 
Just  then  a tall,  straight,  gentlemanly  figure 
entered  the  room,  and  placing  his  hat  upon  a 
rack,  he  looked  around  inquiringly.  My  friend, 
the  Member,  caught  his  eye,  and  whispering 
to  me  : 

“That’s  P 


, one  of  our  men,  Member  for 


A Thorough  Gentleman  29 

the  E Division,  C County,”  he  whistled, 

and  put  up  his  hand. 

The  gentleman,  without  divesting  himself  of 
his  overcoat,  came  slowly  towards  us,  and  when 
he  had  come  quite  close,  my  friend  discovered 
his  mistake. 

“ I beg  a thousand  pardons,”  he  said.  “ In 
the  dusk  I quite  mistook  you  for  a friend  and 
Parliamentary  colleague.” 

“ A most  happy  mistake,”  said  the  gentleman, 
removing  his  gloves.  “ May  I be  allowed  to 
take  advantage  of  it  ? I perceive  there  is  no 
other  table  unoccupied.” 

It  was  awkward  ; but  what  can  an  Irishman 
do  but  be  civil  ? My  friend  said  we  would  both 
be  most  happy  to  have  his  company,  and  he 
at  once,  and  in  a most  peremptory,  gentlemanly 
manner,  ordered  soup. 

He  was  quite  tall,  bald  on  the  crown  of  his 
head  ; he  wore  a short,  thick  beard,  slightly 
silvered  with  grey,  and  he  looked  excessively 
delicate.  His  cheeks  were  sunken,  the  cheek- 
bones quite  apparent,  and  his  eyes  glowed  as 
the  eyes  of  a consumptive  patient  enlarge  and 
shine  with  the  progress  of  the  disease.  There 
was  a curious  blending  of  hauteur  and  deference 


30  A Thorough  Gentleman 

in  his  manner ; and  a strange  odour  exhaled 
from  his  clothes,  which  I could  not  for  a con- 
siderable time  define. 

He  took  his  soup  rather  too  hastily,  I thought ; 
and  then  he  rubbed  his  bread  around  and  around 
the  plate,  and  ate  it  almost  ravenously. 

“ He  has  lived  abroad,”  I thought.  “ That 
is  not  an  English  custom.” 

When  the  waiter  brought  fish,  he  sent  back 
the  tiny  morsel,  and  looking  at  the  carte,  he 
said  : 

“ I see  salmon  here.  Bring  me  a large  slice 
of  salmon,  and  sauce — mind,  sauce  ! ” 

Then  turning  to  my  friend  he  said,  in  an 
altered  tone : 

“ So  I have  the  honour  of  dining  with  a Member 
of  Parliament  ? ” 

My  friend  bowed. 

“ I have  been  in  pretty  high  society,”  he  said, 
picking  up  some  crumbs  and  eating  them,  “ nay, 
I have  even  enjoyed  her  Majesty’s  hospitality  ; 
but  I have  never  aspired  to  be  a Member  of  the 
Legislature.  It  is  a great  honour,  sir,  to  be 
allowed  to  dine  with  you ; and  I perceive,  or 
rather  I presume,  you  are  both  Irish  ? ” 

“ Yes,  we  are  Irish,”  said  my  friend  laconically. 


A Thorough  Gentleman  3 1 

“ Now,”  said  the  stranger,  taking  up  his  fork 
and  breaking  the  salmon  cutlet  before  him,  “ I 
do  not  share  the  insular  and  narrow  prejudices 
of  my  countrymen  against  the  Irish.  I have 
been  lately  the  guest  of  one  of  your  excellent 
countrymen.  He  maintained  the  national  re- 
putation for  hospitality.  In  fact  if  I could 
complain  of  anything,  it  would  be  that  he  was 
almost  too  pressing  in  his  attentions.  But  to 
resume.  I am  a travelled  man  ; I have  seen 
all  races  and  peoples  and  tongues  ; and  I have 
learned  to  distinguish — what,  do  you  think  ? 
Races  ? No ! — all  races  are  alike.  I have 
learned  to  distinguish  a gentleman  from 
a cad ! ” 

Somehow,  we  felt  flattered ; and  we  launched 
at  once  into  a most  amiable  discussion  on  the 
peculiarities  of  nations  and  races ; and  there 
was  a singular  unanimity  in  our  opinions.  We 
thoroughly  agreed  that  there  were  gentlemen  in 
every  country,  even  amongst  the  Turks,  and 
when  these  were  mentioned,  the  stranger  became 
quite  heated. 

“ The  Turks  ? ” he  said.  “ Why,  they  are 
the  cream  of  civilisation.  Every  Turk  is  a 
gentleman.  They  are  the  only  race  which,  as  a 


32  A Thorough  Gentleman 

race — I am  not  speaking  of  individuals  merely — 
maintain  dignity,  reserve,  courtesy.  A Turk 
never  presumes,  is  never  disturbed,  is  always 
calm,  serene,  dignified.  And  if  you  want  to 
see  the  perfection  of  family  life,  get,  if  you  can, 
at  Cairo  or  Alexandria,  an  invitation  from  some 
Sheik  to  his  house,  and  there — well,”  he  con- 
tinued, “ I must  not  tell.  It  would  be  un- 
gentlemanly — a breach  of  hospitality.” 

He  ate  ravenously,  voraciously ; but  I set  it 
down  to  his  Oriental  experiences.  He  drank 
nothing,  and  refused  the  bottle  of  Margaux 
.which  my  friend  pushed  towards  him. 

“ He  is  a Mussulman,”  I said  to  myself.  “ See, 
he  avoids  wine,  and  he  is  so  enthusiastic.” 

In  the  intervals  of  the  courses,  he  spoke  as 
rapidly  as  he  had  eaten,  giving  us  details  of  all 
his  travels  in  Mexico,  Guatemala,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Ganges,  and  the  Nile.  He  had  marvellous 
powers  of  description,  and  when  he  talked  about 
the  charms  of  the  Desert,  the  great  dark  night 
hanging  down  with  its  rich  clusters  of  stars 
over  the  Bedouin  tents,  evening  on  the  Ganges, 
the  sun  setting  behind  the  Pyramids,  &c.,  I 
began  to  feel  that,  after  all,  a man  must  travel 
to  know.  But,  then,  his  pale,  emaciated  features, 


A Thorough  Gentleman  33 

stooped  shoulders,  and  short  cough,  told  another 
tale. 

“ You  have  gained  by  your  travels,”  I said, 
“ but  you  have  lost  somewhat.  Your  health 
appears  to  have  suffered.” 

“ Quite  so,”  he  replied.  “ I have  suffered.” 
“I  perceive,”  said  my  friend,  “that  you  are 
using  iodine.”  The  stranger’s  fingers  were 
stained  a deep,  brownish  red,  and  his  finger-nails 
were  rough  and  jagged. 

“ Sir,”  said  he,  “ you  are  a Sherlock  Holmes. 
Every  night,  for  many  weeks,  I have  had  to  use 
tincture  of  iodine  for  my  lungs.” 

This  gave  me  the  clue  to  the  singular  odour 
I had  noticed,  hanging  around  his  clothes,  as 
he  entered. 

“ And  you  are  using  creosote  ? ” I remarked. 

“ Sir,”  he  said,  “ you  are  a brother-detective. 
Yes,  I have  been  using  creosote,  or  coal-tar  in 
some  form.” 

Just  here  the  waiter  came  round,  switching 
on  the  electric  lamps.  The  stranger  looked 
slightly  disconcerted,  and  bending  across  the 
table  he  whispered  : 

“ You  are  in  possession  of  the  table,  sir, 

and  have  the  right  to  interfere.  Would  you 

c 


34  A Thorough  Gentleman 

kindly  tell  this  waiter  to  leave  us  in  the  dusk  ? 
My  eyes  have  suffered  from  the  glare  of  the 
desert  sands,  and  that  abominable  light  is  par- 
ticularly hurtful.” 

The  request  seemed  strange,  but  my  friend 
complied. 

“ You  don’t  wish  for  the  light,  sir  ? ” the 
waiter  said. 

“ No,  we  have  light  enough,”  said  the  Member. 

“ I beg  your  par’n,  sir,”  said  the  waiter,  “ but 
this  gentleman  belongs  to  your  party  ? ” 

“ Well,  ye-es  ! ” said  the  Member.  “ We  have 
dined  together.” 

“ Oh,  all  right,  sir,”  said  the  waiter.  “ We 
only  wanted  to  know.” 

The  stranger  was  not  disconcerted  in  the 
least.  He  slewed  his  chair  around,  sipped  his 
coffee  carefully,  lit  a proffered  cigar,  and  said  : 

“ Now,  there’s  another  instance  of  the  vast 
gulf  that  separates  Oriental  from  Occidental 
civilisation.  You  noticed  that  impertinent  ques- 
tion ? That  would  be  impossible  in  the  East ; 
just  as  impossible  as  that  a mere  servant  should 
be  allowed,  nay,  compelled  to  wear  the  garments 
of  civilisation,  and  these — the  full  dress  of  a 
gentleman.  You  perceive  the  incongruity  ? 


This  Gentleman  belongs  to  Your  Party? 

To  face  page  34. 


- 


A Thorough  Gentleman  35 

Now,  in  the  East,  a slave — and  that  cochon  is 
but  a slave — would  have  approached  with  defer- 
ence, salaaming  to  the  ground,  lifted  your  right 
foot,  and  placed  it  on  his  head,  salaamed  again, 
and  then  protested  that  you  were  a son  of  the 
Prophet,  that  sunshine  was  your  shadow,  that 
your  eyes  lighted  the  stars  at  night,  and  that 
he,  your  most  humble  and  adoring  subject,  would 
think  himself  privileged  to  die  a thousand  deaths 
at  your  bidding.” 

“ But  that’s  all  bunkum,”  said  my  friend 
the  Member. 

“ Bunkum  ? Yes,”  echoed  the  stranger.  “ I 
am  not  sure,”  he  continued  very  slowly,  as  if 
he  had  been  deeply  pained  at  the  expression, 
but  was  too  gentlemanly  to  resent  it,  “ that  I 
would  have  used  the  expression.  But  it  is  ex- 
pressive ; and  your  remark  is  quite  correct. 
But  is  not  bunkum  the  oil  of  life  ? This  old, 
decrepit,  worn-out  civilisation  would  have  been 
shaken  to  pieces  long  ago,  and  after  creaking 
and  moaning  enough  to  make  angels  or  lost 
angels  weep,  would  have  collapsed  and  lain  still 
for  ever,  were  it  not  for  bunkum.  What  is 
‘ Your  Majesty  ’ ? Bunkum.  ‘ Your  Royal 
Highness  ’ ? Bunkum.  ‘ Your  Grace  ’ ? Bun- 


36  A Thorough  Gentleman 

kum.  ‘ My  Lord  ’ ? Bunkum.  When  the  nurse 
takes  the  pink  and  puling  baby,  who  has  wan- 
dered hither  from  eternity,  to  the  admiring 
father,  and  calls  it  ‘ a cherub,’  ‘ an  angel,’  it  is 
‘ bunkum.’  And  when  the  headstone  declares 
that  a paragon  of  all  the  virtues  lies  here,  it  is 
‘ bunkum.’  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  my  dear 
friend,  as  you  sat  on  the  green  benches  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  heard  a Cabinet  Minister 
address  one  of  your  party,  which,  as  you  know, 
he  cordially  detests,  and  would  sweep  into 
Gehenna  without  compunction,  as  ‘ my  honour- 
able and  learned  friend,’  that  this  was  bunkum  ? 
The  only  person  in  your  august  assembly  that 
is  not  a lay-figure  is  the  Speaker.  No  one  dare 
address  ‘ bunkum  ’ to  him.  He  is  ‘ Sir  ’ ; no 
more  ; but  that  is  the  title  of  a gentleman.” 

My  friend  the  Member  was  calmly  chuckling 
to  himself  at  this  delightful  attack  on  Society 
in  general,  and  the  “ Mother  of  Parliaments  ” 
in  particular. 

“ Where  then  comes  in  the  difference  between 
Oriental  and  Occidental  bunkum  ? ” continued 
the  stranger,  between  every  furious  puff  of  his 
cigar. 

“ Mark  ! the  expression  is  not  mine.  I hold 


A Thorough  Gentleman  37 

you  responsible  for  it.  Well,  the  difference  is, 
that  the  Orientals  are  consistent ; you  are  not. 
The  Oriental  never  forgets  himself,  never  breaks 
into  anger,  is  never  insolent.  He  does  not  call 
you  ‘ Son  of  the  Prophet * to  your  face,  and 
grimace  behind  your  back.  He  does  not  wel- 
come you  effusively  to  his  house  ; and,  when  you 
are  leaving,  say : * Praised  be  Allah,  what  a 
riddance ! ’ He  may  sometimes,  under  great 
provocation,  cheat  you  in  a bargain,  but  it  is 
always  done  in  a gentlemanly  manner ; and  if 
he  does  put  laudanum  in  your  coffee,  at  least 
he  calls  upon  Allah  to  protect  you.  But  here, 
whilst  you  retain  all  the  bunkum — pardon  me, 
the  expression  is  your  own — of  the  East,  every- 
thing else  is  vulgar,  plebeian,  monkeyish  ; and 
it  reveals  itself  in  such  awful  be'tises  as  that 
wretched  creature  was  just  now  guilty  of.  But, 
here  he  comes  again,  the  slave  of  the  lamp  and 
the  napkin  ! ” 

The  waiter  approached,  and  proffered  to  my 
friend  the  Member,  the  bill,  on  a salver.  As 
he  did,  I saw  him  give  a searching  look  on  the 
stranger. 

The  latter  threw  aside  the  stump  of  his  cigar, 
and  reaching  over,  he  said  eagerly  ; 


38  A Thorough  Gentleman 

“ Is  my  account  here  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  waiter  irreverently  ; “ the 
entire  account  is  on  that  bill.” 

“ Then  I shall  pay  for  all,”  said  the  stranger, 
fumbling  in  a side-pocket. 

The  Member  had  placed  a sovereign  on  the 
salver,  and  beckoned  the  waiter  away. 

“ I cannot  allow  this,  sir,”  said  the  stranger, 
deeply  offended.  “ If  would  be  most  ungentle- 
manly  to  permit  a perfect  stranger  to  discharge 
my  debts.” 

“ I wouldn’t  have  taken  the  liberty,”  said  the 
Member,  “ but  you  didn’t  resent  it,  when  I 
said  we  belonged  to  the  same  party.  Besides, 
it  is  a way  we  Irish  have.” 

“Yes,  I perceive,”  said  the  gentlemanly 
stranger,  and  sank  into  a brown  study. 

The  receipted  bill  was  brought,  the  waiter 
tipped,  and  we  stood  up  to  depart,  when,  in  a 
pitiful  way,  the  stranger  stopped  us. 

“ Gentlemen,”  he  said,  “ please  be  seated  one 
moment,  if  I may  detain  you.” 

He  had  turned  away  his  head,  and  it  sank 
low  on  his  breast.  The  cafe  was  empty.  The 
waiters  had  gone  into  the  kitchen,  as  there  was 
nothing  further  to  be  done. 


A Thorough  Gentleman  39 

“ Your  generosity  has  overpowered  me,”  he 
said  at  length.  “ I don’t  know  where  to  begin 
my  confession.” 

Then,  as  if  he  were  doing  a desperate  thing 
and  should  do  it  quickly,  he  said  : 

“ You  have  entertained  a gentleman,  and — a 
jail-bird.  I had  just  come  out  of  prison,  starved, 
emaciated,  dying,  and — to  die  ! For  God  is  my 
witness,  I was  about  to  seek  my  bed  to-night  in 
the  Thames.  But,  as  I passed  this  place,  I 
said,  ‘ I shall  dine  like  a gentleman  once  more, 
and  then ” 

He  paused  for  a moment,  as  if  trying  to  re- 
member his  feelings. 

“ You  may  ask  why  I was  in  jail,  or  a jail- 
bird, which  implies  so  much  more.  It  were  a 
tedious  story  ; but  I may  say  at  once  that  I 
have  never  been  guilty  of  an  ungentlemanly  act. 
I have  never  done  anything  beyond  what  is 
done  every  day  and  night  by  the  elite  of  this 
city.  But  you  will  say  I have  lied  to  you,  and 
that  is  not  gentlemanly.  No  ! I have  not  lied. 
I have  equivocated.  I said  I had  enjoyed  her 
Majesty’s  hospitality.  So  I have.  I said  that 
I had  been  entertained  by  one  of  your  country- 
men, and  that  he  was  too  pressing  in  his  atten- 


40  A Thorough  Gentleman 

tions.  It  is  true.  Rourke,  or  Crooke,  or  some- 
thing else,  was  my  warder.  I have  said  that 
I used  iodine.  It  is  true.  But  that  stain,”  he 
pointed  to  his  thumb  and  fingers,  “ is  not 
iodine.  It  is  oakum.  And  the  prison-odour  that 
clings  around  me  still  is  not  creosote,  as  your 
learned  friend  conjectured,  but  the  odour  of 
tarred  rope.  You  will  object  that  it  was  not 
gentlemanly  to  come  in  here  and  order  dinner, 
knowing  that  I had  not  the  means  of  paying 
for  it.  Bismillah ! Is  it  not  done  every  day 
hundreds  of  times  in  this  city  by  your  greatest 
swells  ? No  gentleman  pays  for  such  trifles  as 
dinner  or  habiliments.  He  pays  for  a box  at 
the  opera,  or  a diamond  ; but  for  a dinner  ? 
Oh  no  ! Of  course  I know  that  if  I had  not 
had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  you,  I should 
have  been  flung  out  upon  the  pavement,  and 
copped  instantly.  But  then,  why  quarrel  with 
good  fortune  ? I never  do.  If  I had  been 
copped  I should  sleep  to-night  on  a dry  board 
instead  of  the  slime  of  the  river.  That  would 
have  been  one  gain.  But  I would  have  lost 
an  excellent  dinner.  Well ! there’s  the  equili- 
brium of  things.” 

He  stood  up. 


“ I now  go  to  my  doom ; 


A Thorough  Gentleman  41 

but  with  the  sublime  consciousness  that  I 
have  dined,  as  a gentleman,  with  gentlemen. 
And  now,  one  favour  more.  May  I take  this 
cigar  ? ” 

The  Member  nodded.  The  gentlemanly 
stranger  lighted  the  cigar  leisurely,  and  smoked 
for  a second  or  two. 

“ The  favour  is  this,”  he  said.  “ To  perfect 
the  compliment  by  allowing  me  to  accompany 
you  to  the  door.  I see  these  wretched  slaves 
have  come  in  again,  and  are  watching  us.” 

“ Come  along,”  said  the  Member.  At  the 
door,  under  the  pitiless  glare  of  the  pale  electric 
light,  all  was  visible.  The  soiled  collar,  the  blue 
melton  overcoat  white  at  the  elbows  and  seams, 
the  yellow  tips  of  the  fingers  showing  through 
the  shabby  and  broken  gloves,  the  silk  hat 
brown  and  broken — all  told  their  tale. 

The  stranger  turned  and  said  : “ Gentlemen, 
I must  not  intrude  on  you  any  longer.  I beg 
once  more  to  thank  you.  May  Allah  protect 
you ! ” Then,  lifting  his  shabby  hat,  he  said 
to  my  friend,  “ Ave  Ccesar  Imperator  ! moriturus 
te  saluto ! ” 1 He  strolled  leisurely  down  the 

1 “ Hail,  Emperor  and  Caesar  ! I,  about  to  die,  salute  you  !” — 
the  salutation  of  the  gladiators  in  the  arena. 


42  A Thorough  Gentleman 

crowded  thoroughfare,  and  the  odour  of  the 
cigar  filled  the  air. 

I couldn’t  help  laughing.  “ That  was  a bad 
sell,”  I said. 

“ Never  mind,”  said  the  Member,  “ you  have 
dined  with  a gentleman.” 

I did  not  know  how  true  were  his  words, 
until  in  after  years,  long  after  his  death,  I learned 
that  my  friend  the  Member  had  that  evening 
parted  with  his  last  sovereign  to  entertain  a 
stranger  and  a felon. 


THE  MONKS  OF  TRABOLGAN 


A STORY  OF  THE  FUTURE 

I 

“ Brother  Felix,”  said  the  old  Abbot,  stopping 
and  looking  out  over  the  silent  waters,  that 
were  now  grey  as  smouldering  ashes,  for  the 
sun  had  gone  down  with  wonderful  pomp  into 
the  West ; “ the  evening  of  your  profession  was 
just  such  an  evening  as  this.  How  many  years 
ago,  did  you  say  ? ” 

“ Eleven  years,  Father,”  said  the  monk,  as 
if  he  would  shift  the  conversation. 

“ Eleven  years,”  repeated  the  old  man  slowly. 
“ How  swiftly  they  pass  ! It  seems  only  yester- 
day that  I held  your  trembling  hands  in  mine ; 
and  I remember  how  I watched  the  sun  through 
the  chancel  window  playing  in  your  hair,  and 
I wove  mock  hexameters  out  of  your  name, 
whilst  Brother  Alexis  was  preaching.  He  was 
prosy,  and  rather  long-winded,  Brother,  was  he 
not  ? ” 


43 


44  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

“ Very,”  said  the  young  monk,  as  he  remem- 
bered the  ordeal. 

“ What  were  these  queer  rhymes  that  ran  in 
my  head  ? You  looked  so  supremely  happy, 
you  know,  that  the  caution  and  foresight  of 
age  must  needs  forecast  clouds  and  darkness. 
What  were  they  ? Infelix  est,  cui  nomen 
est  nimium  felix.  That  was  bad.  Was  it  not  ? 
And : Felix  nuncupatus  forsitan  foret  in- 

felix. That  was  worse.  How  Brother  Aurelian 
would  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears  if  he  heard 
me!  ” 

They  walked  along  again  slowly,  the  aged 
monk  looking  anxious  enough  under  this  tone 
of  levity ; and  the  younger  looking  perplexed 
and  annoyed.  At  last  the  silence  became  un- 
bearable. 

“ Father,”  said  the  young  monk,  “ you  wish 
to  say  something  to  me.  Say  it.  You  know 
I have  never  resented  anything  your  kindly 
heart  has  judged  right  to  say  to  me.  But 
you  know,  too,  I cannot  bear  suspense  or  un- 
certainty. I am  too  volatile,  and  unstable. 
What  is  it  ? ” 

“ My  son,”  said  the  old  man,  pausing  and 
looking  with  infinite  tenderness  at  the  anxious 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  45 

face  of  his  companion,  “ what  shall  I call  you, 
Felix  or  Infelix  ? ” 

“ Infelix,  Father,”  said  the  monk,  without  a 
moment’s  hesitation. 

“ Ah,  then,  I was  right.  The  clouds  have 
come  down.  And  now,  my  son,  let  me  tell  you 
why.  Sit  here.  Vespers  are  over.  We  shall  be 
in  time  for  night  prayers.” 

They  sat  down  on  the  purple  rocks,  for  the 
dew  had  moistened  the  slender  turf  on  the 
summit  of  the  cliff.  The  sea  was  now  dark, 
and  heaving  restlessly,  though  the  twilight  of 
a summer  evening  still  lingered.  There  was  a 
faint  odour  of  heather  on  the  air ; for  the  wild 
herbs  of  the  meadows  and  the  high  levels  were 
faintly  contending  with  the  strong,  subtle  scents 
of  the  sea.  The  waves  broke  rather  strongly  at 
their  feet,  and  splashed  loudly  against  the  black 
boulders,  and  rolled  the  pebbles  about  uncere- 
moniously. One  heard  only  the  soft  crunching 
of  the  sheep  in  the  fields. 

A ewe  lamb  came  over  and  placed  her  head 
on  the  Abbot’s  lap.  He  rubbed  her  forehead 
gently. 

“ How  shall  I begin  ? ” said  the  old  Abbot, 
folding  his  hands  under  his  scapular.  “ Shall  I 


46  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

say  I have  a presentiment  ? Yes.  It  is  better. 
I have  a presentiment,  Brother  Felix,  that  some- 
where in  the  near  future  our  dear  home  shall 
be  broken  up,  and  we  shall  be  scattered,  like 
the  sheep,  when  the  shepherd  is  stricken.” 

“ God  forbid  ! ” cried  the  monk,  starting  up 
in  terror;  “ that  is  too  terrible.” 

The  Abbot  went  on,  unheeding,  in  the  same 
calm  tones,  as  if  his  prophecy  affected  some 
strangers,  and  not  themselves. 

“ The  Abbey  shall  be  no  more.  We  shall  be 
scattered.  The  wolves  will  come  down,  and  you 
shall  be  the  cause  ! ” 

“ Me  ? Reverend  Father.  What  have  I done 
to  deserve  such  a horrible  fate  ? Do  you  not 
know  that  my  affection  for  the  dear  old  Abbey 
is  hardly  second  to  my  affection  for  yourself  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I know  it.  Nevertheless,  such  is  Fate, 
Destiny ; or  rather,  such  is  the  unfolding  of 
Divine  designs.” 

“ But  this  is  a serious  charge,  dear  Father,” 
said  the  young  monk  anxiously.  “ There  must 
have  been  something  to  excite  so  terrible  a 
suspicion.  I am  conscious  of  having  done  no- 
thing against  the  welfare  of  our  home  and 
brethren.” 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  47 

“ No.  Our  worst  and  most  dangerous  acts 
are  those  which  we  least  measure.  What  hap- 
pened whilst  I was  away  in  Rome  ? ” 

“ I published  that  pamphlet,”  said  Brother 
Felix  unhesitatingly,  yet  as  if  he  understood 
the  grave  import  of  his  words. 

“ I am  aware  of  that,”  said  the  Abbot.  “ It 
was  shown  to  me  at  Rome.” 

“ What  ? ” said  the  monk  in  surprise.  “ Do 
you  mean,  Father,  that  that  wretched  little  rag 
went  to  Rome  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I have  brought  it  back,  and  with  it  ? ” 

The  young  monk  was  now  pale  with  excite- 
ment. 

“ Your  condemnation ! ” said  the  Abbot 
slowly. 

The  monk  Felix  felt  the  whole  force  of  the 
blow.  Rome  strikes  like  a Nasmyth  hammer, 
silently,  smoothly,  but  the  dread  weight  of 
nineteen  centuries  and  of  the  immensities  is 
behind  it. 

“ There  was  nothing  wrong  in  the  book,”  he 
said  sullenly,  as  men  say  when  suddenly  accused. 

“ Nothing  wrong  in  doctrine  ? Quite  true. 
Nothing  immature  and  most  inopportune  ? 
Alas,  there  was  ! ” 


48  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

“ I wrote  in  the  interests  of  the  Church,” 
said  the  monk  earnestly.  “ I cannot  stand  any 
longer  these  encroachments  on  our  rights  and 
privileges.  We  are  not  Frenchmen  to  lie  down 
tamely  in  face  of  oppression.  I am  not  an 
opportunist.  God  forbid.  I stand  up  for  what 
is  right  and  just,  and  God  is  with  me.  The 
people  have  adopted  every  one  of  my  ideas. 
They  have  answered  nobly  to  my  appeal. 
Yet ” , 

“ Yet  ? ” said  the  Abbot. 

“ If  Rome  speaks  I am  silent.  I am  not 
going  to  weigh  the  feather  of  my  judgment 
against  her  vast  experience.” 

“ I was  asked,”  said  the  Abbot  slowly,  “ by 
a few  sarcastic  people,  not  by  the  Church  autho- 
rities, who  measure  their  language,  whether  we 

had  established  a new  Port  Royal ” 

“ Shame  ! ” said  the  monk  Felix. 

“ I was  asked  who  was  our  Mere  Angelique  ? ” 
“ Disgraceful ! ” said  the  monk. 

“ I was  asked  about  our  new  Lamennais,  who 
would  hurl  his  brutum  fulmen  against  the  Church 
of  nineteen  centuries,  and  who  would  die  an 
unrepentant  apostate.  And  I thought  of  that 
lonely  brother  wandering  through  the  chateau, 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  49 

and  making  the  empty  chambers  echo  with  that 
doleful  cry,  0 mon  frere ! mon  frere ! And  I 
said  to  myself,  shall  it  ever  be  that  my  little 
brother,  the  happy  one,  whose  hands  trembled 
in  mine  when  he  spoke  his  vows,  shall  have 
come  to  this  ? ” 

“ God  forbid ! ” said  Brother  Felix,  weeping 
bitterly. 

“ Let  us  return,”  said  the  Abbot,  after  a 
pause.  They  walked  slowly  homewards,  as  the 
evening  bell  tolled  out  over  the  sands  and  the 
sea. 

“ Console  yourself,  my  child,”  he  said,  touched 
by  the  brother’s  anguish.  “ That  danger  is  past. 
We  will  call  in  all  the  pamphlets  that  we  can 
reach ; and  the  stirring  of  the  people  will  die 
away  after  a time.  Our  danger  lies  not  with 
mother  Rome,  who  is  so  patient  and  forbearing. 
Our  danger  lies  in  another  quarter.  You  know 
what  I mean.  It  was  the  gist  of  your  book. 
Be  cautious.  Our  little  hermitage  is  very  dear 
to  us  all.” 

“ Dearest  of  all  to  me,”  said  the  weeping  monk. 
“ Father,  bless  me,  and  pray  for  me.” 

“ Say  the  ‘ Miserere  ’ once,  after  night-prayer. 
God  and  His  Mother  keep  thee.” 


D 


50  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

There  was  a great  silence  in  the  choir  when 
the  monks  departed.  But  it  was  broken  now 
and  again  by  terrible  sobs  that  burst  from  the 
lips  of  a prostrate  figure  before  the  High  Altar. 
The  figure  was  there  when  the  monks  came 
down  at  midnight  for  Matins.  But  no  one  dis- 
turbed it  or  asked  the  cause. 


II 

The  scene  where  we  have  placed  the  foregoing 
incident  was  the  high  cliff  that  slopes  up  gradu- 
ally from  the  sheltered  nook,  just  outside  Cork 
Harbour,  where  a tiny  bay  of  yellow  sand  is  the 
only  barrier  between  the  sea  and  the  mansion 
of  Trabolgan,  transformed  at  the  date  of  our 
story  into  an  abbey,  occupied  by  a community 
of  religious  students,  known  far  and  wide  as 
the  White  Monks  of  Trabolgan.  The  time  is  the 
dawn  of  the  twentieth  century,  or,  rather,  its 
morning.  In  its  dawn  a wave  of  religious 
enthusiasm  had  swept  from  end  to  end  of  Ire- 
land, just  as  some  grave  political  changes  were 
revolutionising  the  social  condition  of  the  people. 

Whence  that  wave  originated  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  say,  for  the  Spirit  breatheth  where 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  51 

He  wills  ; but  it  was  supposed  to  have  reached 
Ireland  from  France,  where  a sudden  cataclysm 
had  emancipated  the  Church  from  all  the  terrible 
restrictions  of  the  Fourth  Republic.  This  had 
been  followed  by' a-gwalpredig^us  revival,  which, 
in  turn,  too^,.  the  shape  of '4  reconstruction  of 
the  ancierot  teligious  houses,  and-^ie  establish- 

, A ' z V-  "A 

ment  of  $ome  new'  Orders  Adapted  fp  the  social 


tions  of  the  ancient  convents,  whose  ruins  still 
testify  to  their  glory.  It  was  thought,  too,  that 
above  all  things  the  exigencies  of  the  Church 
demanded  the  ancient  alliance  between  sanctity 
and  learning  ; and  whilst  the  already  established 
Orders  devoted  themselves  to  the  work  of  preach- 
ing and  giving  public  missions,  or  the  still  higher 
work  of  the  great  contemplative  Communities, 
for  which  Irishmen  have  always  had  an  affinity, 
there  was  a demand  for  a new  Order  of  monk- 
students,  something  on  the  plan  of  the  French 
Benedictines  ; and  their  first,  and  mother-house, 
was  established  at  Trabolgan. 


52  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

This  beautiful  mansion  belonged  to  an  ancient 
and  honourable  family  — the  Roches,  whose 
latest  representative  was  Lord  Fermoy.  As 
far  back  as  the  time  of  King  Edward  II.  they 
were  an  honourable  and  leading  Catholic  family, 
for  we  find  that  in  the  year  1314  the  magnificent 
monastery  of  the  Canons  Regular  of  St.  Augus- 
tine (or,  as  some  say,  of  the  Order  of  St.  Victor), 
at  Bridgetown,  just  at  the  confluence  of  the 
Blackwater  and  Spenser’s  Mulla,  was  founded  by 
Alexander  F'itz-Hugh  Roche,  whose  successors 
also  built  most  of  the  castles  that  dominated 
the  Blackwater,  and  commanded  the  passes  to 
the  Nagle  Mountains.  In  time,  however,  the 
family  was  attainted  and  outlawed  for  parti- 
cipation in  the  Irish  rebellion  of  1641  ; and 
then,  forgetting  their  glorious  name,  de  Rupe, 
de  la  Roche,  they  sank  into  the  condition  of  mere 
Englishry,  and  went  over  to  the  religion  of  the 
conquerors.  But  they  remained  a chivalrous 
and  liberal  family,  loved  by  the  people,  and 
tolerant  and  kindly  towards  the  race  that 
had  once  looked  up  to  them  as  their  trusted 
chieftains. 

And  so,  when  a home  was  required  for  the 
White  Student-Monks,  the  Lord  of  Trabolgan  at 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  53 

the  time  cheerfully  leased  the  old  mansion  to 
them.  They  had  in  turn,  by  the  traditional 
monastic  diligence  and  dexterity,  transformed 
the  woods  and  glens  around,  and  built  long 
rows  of  stately  corridors,  and  a bijou  Gothic 
library,  and  a little  gem  of  Gothic  design — the 
chapel — where  the  monks  performed  the  greatest 
part  of  their  daily  work — singing  the  praises  of 
the  Most  High.  For  study  and  worship  were 
their  daily  occupations.  Study  of  all  things 
related  to  human  science,  disdaining  none,  but 
utilising  all  for  the  glory  of  their  Maker.  Hence 
there  were  gathered  into  this  silent  hermitage 
theologians,  philosophers,  artists,  poets,  mechani- 
cians ; and  the  world,  through  its  literature, 
poured  into  this  quiet  monastery  all  its  most 
daring  and  rebellious,  as  well  as  all  its  most 
gentle  and  salutary  inspirations ; and  in  the 
mighty  crucible  of  religious  thought  and  feeling 
all  were  worked  up  into  a concrete  mass  of 
spiritual  idealism,  which  enhanced  the  artistic 
aspirations  of  the  place,  and  supplied  all  the 
necessary  enthusiasm,  which  showed  itself  in 
outward  expressions,  that  drew  upon  the  convent 
and  its  inmates  the  reverence  or  the  jealousy 
of  the  world  outside. 


54  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

The  monks,  many  of  whom  had  been  educated 
abroad,  were  able,  by  their  constant  correspond- 
ence with  the  Continental  monasteries,  to  furnish 
their  library  with  the  most  rare  and  costly 
volumes,  many  of  which  were  dated  from  medi- 
aeval times.  And  they  were  able  to  purchase 
from  suppressed  houses  in  France  and  Italy 
examples  of  the  most  perfect  workmanship  in 
gold  and  silver  chalices  and  monstrances,  which, 
however,  they  engaged  to  restore  should  happier 
days  dawn  upon  their  Continental  brethren. 
The  monastery,  therefore,  was  quite  a repository 
of  treasure-trove,  which  was  jealously  guarded 
by  the  monks.  Few  visitors  were  allowed  to 
cross  the  sacred  threshold  of  the  library  and 
sacristy.  Occasionally  a missionary  priest  would 
go  into  Retreat  at  the  monastery ; the  few 
peasants  of  the  neighbourhood  were  allowed  the 
privilege  of  hearing  Mass  in  the  chapel ; but 
no  one  had  ever  heard  the  chaunting  of  the 
monks  in  the  choir,  or  seen  their  deft  fingers 
turning  out  the  splendidly  bound  books,  which 
were  rapidly  becoming  as  famous  as  Plantins  or 
Elzevirs.  The  rumbling  of  the  organ  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  deeper  rumbling  of  the  printing- 
press  ; and  the  strange  noise  of  the  machinery 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  55 

was  the  subject  of  much  superstitious  conjecture 
in  the  peasants’  cabins  around.  Yet,  though 
no  one  ever  was  privileged  to  hear  the  monks 
in  choir,  the  fame  of  their  beautiful  chaunting 
had  gone  far  and  wide.  Many  piteous  appeals 
were  made  to  the  Abbot  by  devout,  or  curious 
dilettanti  to  allow  them,  even  once,  to  hear  the 
beautiful  and  quite  novel  rendering  of  the 
famous  Church  music.  The  Abbot  smiled  and 
gravely  shook  his  head.  He  kept  for  his  brethren 
the  doublh  secret  that  was  so  often  put  into  an 
academic  form  of  disputation  in  the  chapter-room, 

(1)  Whether  the  religious  life  could  really 

subsist  in  modem  environments  without 
the  perpetual  presence  of  our  Lord  in 
the  Blessed  Sacrament  ? 

(2)  Whether,  if  the  Psaltery  were  destroyed, 

it  would  be  possible  to  find  any  suit- 
able form  for  the  expression  of  sacred 
worship  ? 

Then,  as  may  be  expected,  strange  rumours 
were  circulated  about  the  Brotherhood.  Their 
hiddenness  and  secrecy  excited  curiosity  and 
envy.  The  books  that  were  issued  from  their 
press  became  objects  of  jealous  scrutiny.  But 


56  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

no  fault  could  be  found  there,  unless  their 
enemies  desired  to  anathematise  Clement  of 
Alexandria,  or  Ephrem  the  Syrian,  or  St.  Hilary, 
or  St.  Augustine ; for  the  Brothers  had  limited 
all  their  labour  to  reprints  of  the  ancient  Fathers. 
Nothing  original  was  ever  allowed  to  pass  the 
gate  until  it  had  been  subjected  to  the  most 
careful  scrutiny.  Brother  Felix  had  again  and 
again  been  warned  not  to  attempt  to  issue  a 
certain  pamphlet  that  had  become  as  dear  to 
him  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  He  dared  to  dis- 
obey that  order : and  hence  we  left  him  pros- 
trate in  the  sanctuary  the  night  of  the  Abbot’s 
admonition.  The  Brothers  wore  a white  habit 
with  the  usual  scapularies  and  cinctures ; but 
the  capuce,  or  hood,  was  lined  with  blue  or 
red  silk,  according  to  the  academic  degree  of 
the  Brother ; for  it  was  an  inexorable  rule  that 
only  graduates  in  some  home  or  foreign  Univer- 
sity could  be  accepted  as  postulants  in  the  Order. 

And  thus  they  passed  their  quiet,  uneventful 
life,  suffused  with  perfect  peace,  labouring  to 
reconcile  the  feeble  hypotheses  of  modern  science 
with  the  fixed  and  stable  principles  of  faith. 
This  was  their  work.  Their  pleasure  was  to 
exult  in  the  very  beautiful  and  charming  scenery 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  57 

which  God  had  put  into  this  little  cameo  on  the 
earth’s  surface,  and  to  rejoice  in  the  glorious 
melodies  that  pealed  from  their  noble  organ, 
and  which  their  every  effort  was  to  rival  and 
surpass.  Ah  ! these  oak-stalls  with  their  heavy 
brass  hinges,  and  the  lecterns  for  their  breviaries  : 
that  floor,  parquetted  in  oak,  and  polished  into 
the  smoothness  of  a mirror ; those  stained 
windows,  grouped  around  the  great  apse  window, 
with  its  exquisite  conception  of  the  great  Pro- 
phetess of  the  Magnificat ; the  shifting  colours 
as  the  sun  threw  down  its  tender  mosaics  of 
purple,  and  saffron,  and  amethyst,  and  beryl, 
making  the  floor  like  that  of  Heaven  in  the 
Apocalypse  ; the  odours  of  flowers  and  incense  ; 
the  magnificent  symbolism  of  the  Church  in 
her  ceremonies ; and  the  divine  and  enthralling 
sweetness  that  breathed  from  that  noble  organ, 
as  its  faint,  far-away  notes  deepened  into  the 
solemn  bourdon,  and  descending  from  the  clouds 
to  earth  raised  the  souls  of  the  worshippers  from 
earth  to  Heaven — all  this  ethereal  dream  of  the 
noble  and  perfect  and  tranquil  life — how  it  all 
came  back  to  the  memories  of  the  monks,  when 
it  was  all  scattered  like  the  rude  awakening  from 
a celestial  vision  to  the  hard  and  barren  realities 


58  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

of  life  ! And  then  Nature,  with  all  its  Irish 
marvels  of  cloud  and  sky  and  sea  ! No  wonder 
that  many  wearied  and  tired  Americans — as 
they  glided  past  this  little  nook  of  Paradise,  and 
saw  the  shining,  level  beach,  and  the  noble 
trees,  and  sometimes  two  or  three  white-robed 
monks  perched  like  sea-birds  on  the  cliffs,  and 
witnessed  the  tranquillity  that  lay  like  a golden 
cloud  over  all — thought  that,  perhaps,  after  all, 
it  were  better  to  live  under  such  peaceful  condi- 
tions than  under  the  hot,  burning  skies  and  the 
feverish,  passionate,  throbbing  excitement  in  the 
Golgothas  of  our  modem  cities. 

And  yet  the  meek  Abbot  had  a presentiment 
that  all  this  beauty  of  nature  and  love  would  be 
broken  up  and  scattered,  as  by  a whirlwind  ; 
and  that  a penitent  monk,  who  loved  this  retreat 
more  passionately  than  his  brethren,  and  who 
was  for  ever  deploring  his  impetuosity  and  rest- 
lessness, would  be  the  innocent  and  unconscious 
cause  of  the  dispersal  of  his  Brotherhood. 

Ill 

We  have  said  that  the  peaceful  community  of 
Trabolgan  was  an  object  of  jealousy. 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  59 

It  was  inevitable.  Their  very  exclusiveness 
made  them  suspected  and  disliked.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  if  they  had  flung  open  their  gardens 
and  grounds,  and  made  their  library  and  chapel 
common  property,  human  envy  would  still  rage 
around  what  was  superhuman.  But  the  very 
singularity  of  the  monks’  position — their  trea- 
sures, their  vast  learning,  and  the  air  of  academic 
peace  and  power  that  reigned  over  their  persons 
and  pursuits — excited  a great  deal  of  criticism 
and  a great  deal  of  dislike  in  petty  minds. 
Strange  rumours  had  gone  to  Rome  and  been 
discredited  there  ; and  wise — overwise — people, 
whose  wisdom  generally  consists  in  their  un- 
charitable estimates  of  what  is  quite  beyond 
their  comprehension,  began  to  shrug  their 
shoulders  when  the  White  Monks  of  Trabolgan 
were  mentioned.  A vague  suspicion  of  hetero- 
doxy always  attaches  to  learning — there  is  such 
a danger  for  the  learned  to  slip  the  leash,  and 
go  out  into  wild  unknown  regions  of  speculation. 
But  the  danger  came  not  from  the  Church, 
which  looks  at  everything  with  slow,  calm  eyes  ; 
nor  from  the  people,  whose  faith  is  so  unerring  ; 
but,  as  in  France,  from  the  professional  politi- 
cians, the  empirics  in  the  science  of  governing, 


60  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

especially  from  the  advanced  thinkers  to  whom 
progress  always  spells  perfection. 

This  class,  fed  on  journalism,  and  magazine 
literature,  knowing  the  names,  but  not  able  to 
measure  the  ideas  of  great  thinkers,  with  scrappy 
notions  of  political  science,  and  ragged  prin- 
ciples of  economical  government,  have  been  the 
bane  of  the  Church  in  the  last  few  centuries. 
They  sprang  from  the  “ Encyclopedia  ” ; they 
will  end — God  knows  where.  Just  now,  they 
had  a majority  in  a provisional  government, 
under  the  beck  of  the  Imperial  Parliament  of 
Great  Britain ; and  they  were  bitten  with  the 
idea  of  Gambetta,  that  the  Church  was  so  power- 
ful it  could  easily  afford  to  have  its  claws  trimmed 
and  its  pinions  cut.  When  it  became  a little 
older,  and  more  feeble — well,  both  should  be  let 
grow  to  their  fullest  measure.  And  they  fixed 
their  covetous  eyes  on  the  little  treasure-house 
of  Trabolgan.  What  a shame  to  have  a few 
monks  left  in  sole  enjoyment  of  their  Raffaelles 
and  Murillos,  whilst  this  metropolitan  museum 
was  as  bare  as  the  cloisters  of  a Cistercian 
monastery  ! And  would  not  those  noble  volumes 
suit  the  empty  racks  and  shelves  of  our  great 
University  Library,  rather  than  the  tiny  book- 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  61 

shelves  of  an  insignificant  convent ! And  that 
organ  ! What  glorious  popular  concerts  might 
be  given  on  Sunday  afternoons  to  a people  that 
were  music-mad ! It  was  specious,  but  dan- 
gerous. The  angry  growl  of  a people,  always 
jealous  of  Church  privileges,  warned  off  the 
hungry  jackals.  But  the  Imperial  Parliament ! 
Yes,  a hostile  Government  might  fairly  slip  in, 
where  a popular  Parliament  dare  not. 

Oh,  for  a pretext ! It  came.  Brother  Felix 
gave  it. 


IV 

He  was  a specialist,  as  were  all  his  Brethren  ; 
and  his  specialty  was  engineering.  He  was  a 
calculating  machine.  He  had  a passion  for 
figures.  Height,  breadth,  depth,  should  be  no 
mystery  to  him.  The  magician  of  the  last 
century  had  left  a wonderful  legacy  to  the 
world.  But  a legacy  to  be  lent  out  at  vast 
usurious  interest  for  the  benefit  of  humanity. 
Brother  Felix  borrowed,  invested,  speculated, 
developed  ; and  all  the  deep  seas  gave  up  their 
mysteries  to  him. 


62  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

Many  a night,  like  so  many  an  Irish  dreamer, 
did  he  lie  awake,  thinking  of  vast  imaginary 
triumphs  for  the  motherland.  For  Ireland,  to 
the  rest  of  the  world,  withered  and  unbeautiful, 
is  to  the  young  Irishman  the  peerless  and  rose- 
crowned  queen  of  chivalry,  for  whom  great 
deeds  of  daring  might  be  done,  and  death  itself 
be  met  and  endured  bravely.  How  often  to 
these  dreamers  has  the  grip  of  the  stronger 
country  been  loosed,  as  Perseus  delivered  Andro- 
meda from  the  sea-monster  ? How  often  have 
British  armies  been  decoyed  into  ambush  and 
destroyed,  reliefs  thrown  into  beleaguered  towns, 
fortresses  destroyed,  battleships  blown  up  ; and 
then  the  smile  and  the  glove  from  my  lady’s 
hand  ! Ay  de  mi  ! 

Well,  Brother  Felix  was  not  beyond  such 
dreamings.  He  had  often  calculated  how  easy 
it  would  be  to  pilot  a hostile  vessel  under  the 
teeth  of  Camden  and  Carlisle  Forts,  anchor  her 
in  the  great  inner  harbour,  land  her  marines, 
and  take  by  one  tremendous  coup  these  im- 
pregnable fortresses,  that  like  the  Calpe  and 
Abyla  of  the  ancients  guarded  this  retreat  to 
the  Atlantic.  He  had  made  all  his  calculations. 
It  was  as  easy  as  hoisting  a sail,  or  steering  a 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  63 

pleasure-boat.  For  Brother  Felix  was  a child 
of  the  sea.  He  had  been  baptized  in  its  brine, 
had  breathed  its  salt  vapours  from  infancy, 
knew  every  wrinkle  and  change  of  colour  on  its 
mobile  face,  loved  it  with  that  intense  passion 
which  only  the  mystery  of  the  great  miracle  of 
God  can  arouse.  One  of  his  few  pleasures  was 
to  go  out  alone,  and  trust  himself  into  the  arms 
of  his  great  mother.  Often  in  the  evening,  when 
the  monks  had  recreation  from  labour,  he  pulled 
out  miles  to  sea — then  shipped  his  oars,  drew 
his  capuce  over  his  head,  and  let  the  little  shell 
of  a boat  drift,  while  he  gave  himself  up  to 
meditation.  Sometimes  he  remained  out  late, 
and  only  came  home  for  the  midnight  orisons  ; 
but  the  Rules  allowed  such  elasticity,  and  the 
Abbot  knew  the  Brethren  well. 

The  year  had  narrowed  to  October,  and  the 
Channel  and  Mediterranean  fleets  were  mobilising 
on  the  Irish  coasts.  There  had  been  a good 
deal  of  public  interest  in  the  naval  manoeuvres, 
and  daily  reports  of  vast  engagements  were 
telegraphed  to  the  London  Press.  Queenstown 
was  a closed  harbour.  No  ship  was  to  take 
refuge  there,  however  closely  pressed.  The 
three  forts  that  guard  the  harbour  were  sup- 


64  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

posed  to  be  fully  manned,  and  to  have  their 
guns  trailed  on  any  daring  vessel  that  should 
come  within  three  miles  of  the  harbour’s 
mouth. 

One  dark,  gloomy  evening  in  this  month, 
Brother  Felix  was  out  at  sea.  He  had  drifted 
to  the  east  in  a strong  current  ; and  a great 
darkness  had  come  swiftly  down  portending  a 
night-storm.  Already  half  a gale  was  blowing  ; 
and  for  the  first  time  he  was  anxious.  Then 
the  darkness  deepened,  and  he  felt  almost  de- 
spairful when  a great  object  loomed  suddenly  up 
from  the  eastward,  and  he  was  challenged : 
“ Boat  ahoy ! ” There  was  light  enough  to  see 
that  it  was  a powerful  war-vessel ; and  that  she 
had  not  the  buff  chimneys  nor  the  black  and 
yellow  hulls  of  the  British  men-of-war.  That 
meant  nothing,  however,  for  it  was  quite  a 
usual  thing  to  disguise  the  colours  of  the  ships 
during  the  manoeuvres.  Brother  Felix  fell 
rapidly  under  her  stem  ; and  before  he  had 
time  to  remonstrate,  he  and  his  boat  were  lifted 
lightly  on  board  the  man-of-war.  Great  was 
the  laughter  on  board  when  they  found  they 
had  picked  up  not  a pilot  but  a monk.  They 
were  going  to  drop  him  quietly  again  into  the 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  65 

deep,  when  the  captain  interfered,  and  took  the 
monk  into  his  cabin. 

A number  of  officers  were  seated  around  a 
central  table,  which  was  covered  with  maps, 
diagrams,  &c.,  and  one  of  the  number  pointed 
with  a pair  of  compasses  to  some  spot  on  a 
map,  about  which  there  was  evidently  some 
discussion.  The  officers  rose  when  the  strange 
apparition  of  a white-robed  monk  appeared  at 
the  door  of  the  cabin.  The  captain  said, 
“ Pray,  gentlemen,  be  seated,”  and  courteously 
placed  a chair  for  the  monk. 

“ I know  a great  many  of  your  brethren  at 
Einsiedeln,”  he  said  suavely.  “ I have  often 
gone  up  there  from  Lucerne.  What  clever,  genial, 
hospitable  fellows  they  are  ! ” 

The  bewildered  monk  could  only  stare  at  the 
singular  scene,  though  he  took  in  at  a glance 
that  he  was  on  board  a German  warship.  The 
captain  spoke  English  perfectly. 

“ Now,”  the  latter  said,  as  he  pointed  to  a 
particular  spot  on  the  map,  “ that  is  your 
convent ! ” 

The  monk  leaned  over  and  saw  Trabolgan 
clearly  indicated. 

“ And  these  are  the  terrible  forts,”  said  the 

E 


66  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

captain.  “ What  clever  fellows  you  are  to  build 
your  nest  under  such  an  impregnable  fortress.” 
He  laughed  as  he  spoke,.  Brother  Felix 
thought  he  saw  some  dawning  meaning  in  his 
words. 

“ Come,  brother,”  said  the  captain,  filling  out 
a glass  of  Niersteiner,  “ drink  to  the  glorious 
Rhine,  and  the  Fatherland.” 

Brother  Felix  raised  his  glass  to  the  toast. 

“ You  poor  monks,”  continued  the  captain, 
“ live  in  such  seclusion  that  you  know  nothing 
beyond  your  books  and  your  prayers.  Now,  if 
we  had  not  picked  you  up  you  might  have 
drifted  to  America  or  eternity.” 

“ Hardly  so,”  said  Brother  Felix,  whom  the 
wine  had  warmed  into  emotional  heat,  “ there 
is  not  an  inch  of  the  harbour  I don’t  know.” 

“ Ha  ! indeed,”  said  the  captain.  “ Try  him, 
Lieutenant  Scholz.” 

And  then  and  there  the  poor  monk  was  put 
to  a stem  examination  ; but  his  pride  nerved 
him  to  the  task,  and  he  fairly  astonished  his 
hearers  by  his  minute  acquaintance  with  every 
sounding  and  sand-bank,  every  shoal  and  rock 
in  and  around  the  harbour.  But  if  he  surprised 
them  by  the  minuteness  and  accuracy  of  his 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  67 

information,  he  was  in  turn  surprised  by  the 
intimate  knowledge  they  had  of  the  features  and 
geographical  minutiae  of  the  bay  and  coast. 

“And  now,”  said  the  captain,  when  the  wine 
and  the  interchange  of  ideas  had  warmed  them 
into  goodfellowship,  “ we  are  entering  that  har- 
bour to-night — just  as  an  experiment.  But  there 
is  a dangerous  bank,  like  the  back  of  a mighty 
whale,  here  right  in  the  centre  of  the  channel. 
What  may  be  the  distance  from  either  shore  ? ” 

Brother  Felix  told  him  to  the  foot. 

“ Very  good.  I see  you  are  a seaman.  Now, 
look  here,  will  you  take  the  helm,  and  pilot 
us  in  ? ” 

It  was  such  a tremendous  responsibility  that 
Brother  Felix  recoiled.  Yet,  it  was  the  very 
opportunity  he  had  dreamed  of  for  so  many 
years.  Yes.  Here  was  a man-of-war,  fully 
equipped  ; here  was  a crew  of  nine  hundred 
men  ; there  were  the  harbour  lights.  His  spirits 
rose.  His  heart  beat  violently.  All  his  vanity 
and  pride  summoned  him  to  do  a great  deed  of 
seamanship.  Yet,  he  knew  the  risks  well — the 
danger  of  wrecking  that  noble  ship  with  its 
thousand  lives,  the  tempest  that  had  now  arisen 
from  a half-gale  almost  to  hurricane,  the  fierce 


68  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

seas  that  beat  resistlessly  into  the  hollow  of 
the  harbour’s  mouth,  the  chance  of  running  down 
a tender  or  an  outward-bound — all  these  flashed 
across  his  mind,  and  he  rubbed  his  eyes  dubiously, 
and  wondered  was  he  dreaming  in  his  cell.  No  ! 
there  were  the  maps,  there  the  decanters  and 
glasses,  there  the  nameless  odours  that  float 
around  a large  warship,  there  the  calm,  expec- 
tant captain,  there  the  officers,  smiling  at  his 
bewildered  looks.  He  made  up  his  mind  in  a 
moment. 

“ Do  you  enter  as  friend,  or  enemy  ? ” 

“ Friend,  of  course,”  they  shouted. 

“You  know  the  harbour  is  closed  ? ” 

“ Yes,  to  the  fleets  at  the  manoeuvres.  We 
have  just  come  from  them.” 

“ One  word  more.  Shall  this  be  a secret  ? ” 

“ Yes,  on  our  honour,  if  you  like.” 

“ Come  then,”  said  the  monk,  with  a beating 
heart. 

But  when  he  came  on  deck  the  terror  of  the 
thing  struck  him.  They  had  slowed  down  the 
engines  as  the  ship  approached  the  harbour’s 
mouth,  and  she  rolled  heavily  in  the  trough  of 
the  waves.  The  night  was  now  inky  black,  no 
star  or  moon,  only  a white  cloud  of  swishing 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  69 

rain,  seen  when  the  reflection  of  the  lamps 
around  the  binnacle  struck  it.  These,  too, 
were  now  carefully  muffled  ; and  probably,  the 
first  thing  that  alarmed  the  would-be  pilot  was 
the  observation  that  the  vessel  carried  no  lights. 
He  turned  to  the  captain,  and  pointed  to  the 
masthead. 

“ No,  no,”  said  the  captain,  rather  testily, 
“ this  is  an  experiment.” 

They  crossed  the  harbour  mouth,  ran  out  to 
sea ; and  just  at  midnight  slowly  turned,  and 
moved,  silent  as  death,  into  the  harbour.  Brother 
Felix  stood  on  the  bridge.  The  captain  was  by 
his  side,  and  the  navigating  lieutenant.  Far  be- 
low in  the  darkness  half  the  crew  were  mustered. 
Then  the  monk’s  heart  failed  him.  The  lights 
on  Roche’s  Point  flashed  double  across  the  mist 
of  rain,  and  the  monk  said : 

“ I dare  not  do  it.” 

“ Rather  late,  now,  I should  say,”  said 
the  captain,  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of 
the  telegraph.  “ Are  we  in  the  gangway 
yet  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Brother  Felix.  He  saw  the  lights 
of  the  monastery  twinkling  behind  the  light- 
house. He  wished  he  was  in  his  cell. 


70  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

“ Now,  then,”  cried  the  captain,  “ Master 
Pilot,  how  shall  we  steer  ? ” 

“ God  only  knows,  for  I don’t,”  said  the 
trembling  monk.  The  rain  beat  furiously  on  his 
face  and  habit.  He  could  see  the  tiny  streams 
rolling  from  the  oilskins  of  his  companions. 
Meanwhile,  the  huge  vessel  moved  silently 
through  the  channel.  Already,  the  lights  at  the 
point  flashed  behind  them.  The  two  great  forts 
were  invisible.  The  captain  turned  to  the 
lieutenant. 

“ Now  is  the  danger.  Will  they  flash  the  light 
upon  us  ? ” 

“ Not  they.  They  are  all  in  bed.” 

Then  the  moments  that  appeared  hours  to  the 
monk  passed  by.  He  felt  the  vessel  steered  to 
north-east.  Then  there  was  a rattle  of  chains, 
and  the  captain,  turning  courteously  to  the 
monk,  said: 

“ Now,  Brother,  let  us  descend,  and  drink  to 
the  Fatherland  and  our  pilot ! ” 

Shame-faced,  wet  through,  benumbed  with 
cold,  the  monk  descended.  The  officers  were  still 
around  the  cabin  table. 

“ You  see,  gentlemen,”  said  the  captain,  “ I 
said  it  could  be  done,  and  it  is  done.  Here’s  to 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  71 

the  Fatherland  ! Nay,  nay,  Brother,”  he  said, 
seeing  the  abashed  and  humbled  monk,  “ you 
meant  well,  and  your  information  was  useful.” 

Then  Brother  Felix,  to  justify  himself,  told 
them  how  he  had  dreamed  in  his  waking  moments 
of  that  very  adventure ; how  he  had  studied 
every  element  of  danger  in  it,  and  had  gone 
over  every  incident  of  that  night  in  imagination. 

“ It’s  all  so  strange,”  he  said,  “ I’m  not  sure 
but  that  I am  dreaming  in  my  cell.  But  I 
always  thought  of  the  completion  of  the  ad- 
venture.” 

“ And  that  was  ? ” they  asked. 

“ The  landing  of  five  hundred  marines  here  at 
Whitegate  or  Corkabeg,  for  I presume  we  are 
in  the  man-of-war  roads,  and  the  massing  of 
these  men,  within  twenty  yards  of  the  forti- 
fications.” 

“ You  are  a dangerous  dreamer,”  said  a senior 
officer.  “ You  hardly  know  of  what  you  are 
speaking.”  He  spoke  angrily. 

The  captain  looked  thoughtful. 

“ It  shall  be  done,  by  Heavens,”  he  said, 
rising. 

And  still  silently  they  took  that  monk,  and 
put  him  ashore  ; and  they  landed,  boat  by  boat, 


7 2 The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

five  hundred  German  sailors,  fully  armed  and 
equipped,  and  they  passed  through  the  sleeping 
village,  and  moved  up  the  hill  in  the  teeth  of 
the  raging  storm,  and  were  marshalled  by  their 
officers  in  one  continuous  line  outside  a low 
ditch  within  a stone’s  throw  of  Camden  Fort ; 
and  the  sentinel  who  walked  up  and  down  on 
the  beaten  track  above  the  sea,  heard  only  the 
howling  of  the  wind,  and  saw  only  infinite  black- 
ness, and  cursed  his  fate  to  be  drenched  with 
bitter  rain,  and  pierced  with  cold,  when  his 
comrades  were  in  bed.  He  did  not  hear  the 
laughter  and  the  muffled  “ Hochs  ! ” that  came 
from  five  hundred  lips  behind  him  ; nor  the 
watchword  “ Sedan,”  which  was  passed  from 
man  to  man  from  the  captain  at  one  end  of 
the  line  to  his  lieutenant  at  the  other. 

And  there  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing, in  darkness  and  storm,  unable  to  see  each 
other’s  faces,  the  captain  bade  the  monk  good- 
night! 

“ I thank  you,”  he  said.  “ Yours  was  the  in- 
spiration. By  Jove,  what  a mistake  you  made 
when  you  put  on  the  cowl  in  place  of  the 
epaulettes ! ” 

It  was  a very  wet,  bedraggled,  humiliated. 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  73 

anxious  poor  being  that  let  himself  quietly 
into  the  monastery  that  morning.  He  did  not 
think  of  Matins  as  he  undressed.  He  thought 
rather  of  the  desperate,  foolhardy  adventure 
in  which  he  had  been  engaged — its  possible 
consequences  to  himself  and  to  his  monastery. 
Then  a vain  emotion  swept  his  soul,  as  he  re- 
membered what  a leading  and  inspiring  part 
he  had  taken  in  that  daring  enterprise.  And 
then  he  thought,  what  if  the  captain’s  words 
were  true ; and  I have  made  a stupendous 
mistake  ? And  then  came  a sinking  of  the 
heart  as  he  thought  what  the  morrow  would 
bring.  And  thus  anxious,  and  full  of  fore- 
bodings, he  fell  asleep.  He  had  a singular 
dream. 

He  dreamt  that  very  early,  in  the  dawn  of 
the  October  morning,  he  saw  the  Abbot  entering 
his  cell  and,  coming  over,  bend  anxiously  towards 
him.  Then  the  same  vision  went  to  the  door, 
and  saw  with  a smile  the  stream  of  water  that 
had  dripped  from  the  wet  habit ; and  the  vision 
felt  the  habit  and  saw  it  was  saturated,  and 
came  back,  and  bent  over  him  again. 

“ Poor  little  brother,”  it  said,  “ poor  little 
brother  ! And  how  will  it  all  end  ? ” 


74  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

Then  the  vision  slipped  into  the  usual  mock 
hexameters,  the  making  of  which  was  the  Abbot’s 
weakness. 

“ Sortes  infelices  prcebuit  domui  Felix.”  And 
the  vision  vanished. 

The  monk  Felix  arose  betimes  y and  thought 
of  all  that  had  happened  ; and  concluded  that 
it  was  all  a dream. 

’Twas  but  my  white  robe  glimmering  in  the  dawn, 
’Twas  but  the  dawn-wind  creeping  through  my  cell. 

But  the  habit  was  wet  and  heavy ; and  that 
pool  of  water  beneath  it  I 

It  may  not  have  been  a dream  after  all. 

And  that  morning,  as  soon  as  he  could  escape 
unperceived,  he  made  his  way  rapidly  to  the 
cliff,  on  which  the  fort  was  built.  Thence  he 
scanned  eagerly  the  sea  in  front,  the  harbour 
behind.  There  was  no  trace  of  a warship  in 
the  roads  ; there  was  not  a speck  on  the  face 
of  the  broad  sea.  Not  a trace  even  of  the  storm, 
except  the  few  heavy  waves  that  lurched  lazily 
beneath. 

“ It  was  a dream  after  all,”  said  Monk  Felix. 
He  looked  down  at  his  feet.  The  wet  grass 
was  trampled  into  mire,  where  the  marines  had 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  75 

marched.  He  took  up  a match-box.  It  bore 
a German  inscription. 

“ It  was  not  a dream  after  all,”  said  Monk 
Felix. 


V 

The  months  rolled  by ; and  not  a word  was 
heard  of  this  daring  adventure.  The  manoeuvres 
of  the  Channel  and  Mediterranean  Squadrons 
had  been  duly  chronicled  in  the  press,  had  given 
rise  to  a feeling  of  national  British  pride,  had 
passed  from  the  memories  of  men.  The  monas- 
tery. with  the  calm  of  eternity  upon  it,  lay 
serene  and  beautiful  in  its  sheltered  nook  by 
the  Atlantic.  The  usual  work  of  praise  and 
prayer  went  on.  The  secret  of  the  October 
night  was  locked  up  in  two  bosoms,  and  it  was 
safe.  But  what  secret  is  safe  ? Spring  had 
scarcely  dawned,  when  the  little  cloud,  not 
bigger  than  a man’s  hand,  appeared.  It  was 
only  a tiny  paragraph  in  a new  paper,  called 
the  London  Monitor  ; but  it  ran  thus  : — 

“ A singular  secret  has  leaked  out  from  the 
pigeon-holes  of  the  Admiralty,  where  it  was  well 
kept.  It  is  to  the  effect,  that  during  the  much- 


76  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

vaunted  Autumn  manoeuvres  of  last  year,  a 
foreign  warship,  after  minutely  inspecting  the 
evolutions  of  the  squadrons,  entered  a certain 
harbour  on  the  southern  Irish  coast.  That 
harbour  was  supposed  to  be  closed  to  all  war- 
vessels  ; and  its  forts,  the  most  powerful  in  the 
kingdom,  were  fully  manned  for  that  purpose, 
and  its  guns  levelled  on  the  harbour’s  mouth. 
What  adds  to  the  mystery  is,  that  this  vessel 
entered  the  harbour,  with  all  its  perilous  possi- 
bilities, in  the  teeth  of  a terrible  hurricane.  It 
would  argue  splendid,  indeed  unheard  of,  sea- 
manship, but  that  it  is  currently  reported  that 
the  helm  was  held  by  a hand,  that  was  more 
accustomed  to  a Breviary.  It  is  further  re- 
ported, but  this  is  incredible,  that  the  entire 
ship’s  crew,  fully  armed  and  equipped,  landed 
and  surrounded  Fort  Camden  that  same  night. 
There  may  be  something  of  the  imagination  in 
this  strange  rumour : but  the  country  will 

demand  an  investigation  in  the  face  of  our 
vaunted  naval  superiority.” 

The  investigation,  indeed,  was  calmly  going  on 
at  the  time.  And  by  Easter  it  had  progressed 
so  far,  that  the  Abbot  had  received  intimation 
that  a prosecution  had  been  ordered  ; but  he 
was  given  the  alternative  to  close  his  monas- 
tery quietly  and  depart,  leaving  behind  all  the 
Abbey’s  treasures,  which  were  confiscated  to 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  77 

the  Crown,  and  would  be  devoted  to  national 
purposes. 

For  three  months,  the  Abbot  delayed  his 
answer.  Meanwhile  remonstrances  poured  in 
upon  the  Government  from  many  quarters, 
where  the  work  of  the  monks  was  appreciated. 
The  bishop  of  the  diocese  went  even  to  London, 
and  represented  that  what  was  only  a foolish 
freak  had  been  magnified  into  an  act  of  high 
treason ; and  that  it  was  unworthy  of  a great 
nation  to  notice  it.  In  vain.  Sinister  influ- 
ences were  also  at  work  from  socialistic  sources, 
and  the  monastery  was  doomed. 

One  of  those  long  sweet,  summer  evenings 
when  the  day  lingers,  as  if  loth  to  depart,  and 
memory  and  imagination  lend  a lonely  luxury 
to  human  thought,  after  Compline  and  the 
“ Salve  Regina  ” had  been  sung  by  the  White 
Monks  of  Trabolgan,  the  Abbot  quietly  an- 
nounced that  the  monastery  was  to  be  closed, 
and  the  Community  dispersed.  He  added  that 
it  would  be  more  than  useless  to  demand  the 
reason.  All  that  human  influence  could  do  had 
been  done  to  ward  off  the  evil.  But  in  vain. 

The  Monks,  though  thunderstruck  at  the  news, 
retired  silently  to  their  cells.  But  next  day  at 


78  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

Chapter,  their  tongues  were  loosed.  They  de- 
manded the  reason  for  this  sudden  and  awful 
catastrophe.  The  Abbot  was  inexorable  in 
refusing.  Two  or  three  times,  Brother  Felix, 
struck  to  the  heart  with  anguish  and  remorse, 
was  on  the  point  of  throwing  himself  on  the 
floor  of  the  sanctuary,  and  confessing  his  own 
guilt.  But  at  some  mysterious  signal  given  by 
the  Abbot,  he  held  his  peace ; and  so,  wonder- 
ing, fretful,  anxious,  the  community  passed  the 
remaining  days.  On  one  point,  their  minds  were 
fully  made  up,  the  only  point  on  which  they 
disputed  the  judgment  of  their  gentle  Abbot. 
Not  a single  article  of  value  should  pass  into 
alien  hands.  Whatever  was  portable  would  go 
with  them  into  exile.  Whatever  could  not  be 
removed  should  be  destroyed. 

The  exodus  of  the  Monks  was  secretly  fixed 
for  the  eve  of  the  feast  of  St.  John  the  Baptist. 
On  that  feast-day  the  emissaries  of  the  Govern- 
ment were  to  come  and  take  possession  of  the 
monastery  and  its  treasures.  Faithfully  the 
monks  kept  their  vow.  They  cut  the  oil  paint- 
ings from  their  frames,  and  rolled  them  in  dry 
canvas ; selected  all  their  valuable  books  and 
manuscripts,  their  chalices  and  monstrances,  and 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  79 

had  them  secretly  conveyed  on  board  a large 
Norwegian  wheat-ship  that  lay  in  the  harbour, 
and  which  they  chartered  for  France.  Brother 
Aurelian’s  heart  was  broken,  as  he  saw  his 
library  shelves  denuded,  and  looked  around  at 
the  empty  walls.  He  refused  to  remove  a book, 
he  remained  with  averted  face,  and  tear-filled 
eyes,  leaning  against  a panel  of  the  door. 

But  the  great  trouble  came  when  the  Com- 
munity had  to  decide  whether  the  great  organ 
was  to  be  left  or  taken.  It  seemed  such  a crime 
to  touch  it — such  a sacrilege  to  leave  it.  These 
mournful  days,  Brother  Hilarion,  the  blind 
organist,  could  scarcely  be  torn  away  from  the 
beloved  instrument.  He  wept  with  it,  cried  with 
it,  prayed  with  it,  as  his  fingers  passed  listlessly 
over  the  ivory  keys.  At  last,  it  was  decided 
that  it  should  remain.  Who  knows  ? God  is 
more  powerful  than  man ; and  perhaps  the  day 
would  arrive  when  the  exiles  would  come  back, 
and  the  echoes  would  awake  once  more  to  their 
beautiful  chant,  and  the  spirit  of  the  organ 
would  return,  and  speak  at  the  fretful  demand  of 
human  fingers  ! 

But  everything  else  should  go  with  the  monks, 
or  be  destroyed.  And  so,  all  that  lonely  Eve 


80  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

of  St.  John,  the  monks  were  busy,  carrying  down 
to  the  white  beach  the  treasures  that  were  to 
be  placed  in  the  ship’s  boats,  and  piling,  as 
Savonarola  did  on  the  square  of  Florence,  the 
rejected  books,  picture-frames,  &c.,  which  could 
not  be  taken.  These  were  to  be  consumed  by 
fire  at  the  moment  of  the  monks’  embarkation. 
It  was  quite  understood  that  one  of  the  monks 
was  to  remain  behind,  to  meet  the  Government 
officials,  and  to  stay  in  some  dim  hope  that  the 
Community  would  return  in  happier  days  to 
resume  possession  of  their  beloved  home. 

At  last,  all  preparations  had  been  made,  and 
with  the  utmost  secrecy.  A large  pile  was  built 
on  the  sands.  The  vessel  was  to  weigh  anchor 
at  sunset,  and  the  monks  were  to  meet  it  far 
outside  the  harbour’s  mouth,  and  when  night 
had  come  down  on  land  and  sea.  The  great 
bell  for  Compline  tolled  mournfully  for  the  last 
time  ; and,  for  the  last  time,  the  White  Monks 
of  Trabolgan  glided  into  the  bare  and  deserted 
chapel. 

The  lamp  of  the  Sanctuary,  which  had  burned, 
night  and  day,  before  the  Holy  of  Holies,  was 
extinguished.  The  great  High  Altar  of  carved 
oak  was  amongst  the  debris  to  be  burned  on 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  81 

the  sands  at  midnight.  So,  too,  were  the  carved 
oak-stalls  and  lecterns.  Nothing  remained  of 
all  the  former  splendour  and  beauty  of  their 
chapel  but  the  great  organ,  and  the  stained- 
glass  window  with  its  Madonna.  The  blind 
monk  Hilarion  sat  at  his  organ  for  the  last 
time : his  heart  was  breaking ; and  he  made 
the  keys  and  stops  proclaim  it.  The  beautiful 
service  commenced.  There  was  something  like 
irony  in  the  Abbot’s  response  to  the  demand  for 
his  blessing : “ Noctem  quietam,  et  finem  per- 

fectum  concedat  nobis  Dominus  omnipotens.” 

But  there  was  a ring  of  defiance  and  warning 
in  the  voice  of  the  Hebdomadarius,  when  he 
sang  : “ Fratres,  sobrii  estote,  et  vigilate,  quia 
adversarius  vester  diabolus,  tanquam  leo  rugiens 
circuit  quserens  quern  devoret ; cui  resistite, 
fortes  in  fide.” 

And  let  it  be  said  that,  if  sorrow  (such  sorrow  !) 
filled  the  hearts  of  these  holy  monks  in  such  a 
sad  hour  of  farewell,  it  was  mitigated  by  the 
reflection  that  we  have  no  abiding-place  in  this 
world  ; and  that  our  home  is  wherever  God 
chooses  to  place  us.  But,  even  their  great  faith 
was  not  proof  against  their  agony,  when  they 
came  to  the  Salve  Regina,  and  had  to  bid  fare- 

F 


82  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

well  to  their  beautiful  Madonna.  Three  times 
the  Abbot  strove  to  commence  the  Antiphon, 
and  three  times  his  voice  failed  him.  At  length, 
by  a tremendous  effort,  he  intoned  the  first 
word.  The  monks  took  it  up,  and  sang  bravely 
to  the  end.  But,  at  the  final  words  : 0 clemens  / 
0 pia  ! 0 dulcis  Virgo  Maria  ! the  whole  Com- 
munity broke  into  a violent  paroxysm  of  sobs 
and  tears,  and  the  final  prayer  was  never  said. 

Then,  after  a long  interval  of  poignant,  silent 
sorrow,  the  Abbot  arose,  and  said  : 

“ Brethren,  our  cross,  without  which  there  is 
no  crown,  has  been  placed  upon  our  shoulders. 
To-night,  we  leave  for  France.  It  is  a lesson 
to  us  never  to  place  our  affections  again  on 
what  is  so  shifting  and  uncertain  as  the  circum- 
stances of  this  life.  There  is  nothing  lasting, 
permanent,  unchangeable,  but  God.  I have  no 
hope  that  we  shall  return  to  this,  our  dear  home, 
sanctified  by  so  many  years  of  blessedness ; 
sanctified,  most  of  all,  to  me,  by  your  obedience 
and  unvarying  love.  I thank  God  that  I .go 
forth  not  alone,  but  that  you  are  with  me.  Yet, 
in  the  unknown  future,  it  may  be  that  God 
shall  lead  us  back  again,  as  He  led  His  chosen 
people  back  to  the  land  of  Abraham  and  Isaac, 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  83 

and  Jacob.  We  shall  leave  one  representative 
here.  Brother  Felix,  you  shall  remain,  to  set 
the  torch  to  that  funeral  pyre  on  the  sands, 
when  we  shall  have  departed.  And,  now, 
brethren,  say  your  farewells,  for  we  depart.” 

The  blind  monk  Hilarion  kissed  the  organ 
keys,  closed  down  the  cover  on  the  manuals, 
and  drew  closely  the  heavy  curtains.  All  the 
monks  kneeled  down  and  kissed  the  floor  of  the 
choir,  and,  with  the  Abbot  at  their  head,  chaunt- 
ing  aloud,  “ In  exitu  Israel  de  Aegypto ,”  they 
moved  along  the  solitary  beach  to  the  boats. 
Brother  Felix  sat  down  on  the  grey  rocks,  and 
waited  for  the  end.  All  his  brethren  had  said, 
“ Good-bye  ! ” The  Abbot  had  kissed  him  on 
both  cheeks,  and  whispered : “ Exul  infelix 

felici  pusillo,  Vale  ! ! ” 


VI 

That  night  the  Baal-fires  flashed  as  usual  from 
hill  to  hill  in  this  land,  so  ancient,  so  conserva- 
tive of  traditions.  But  the  greatest  beacon 
that  flared  to  the  sky  was  the  one  seen  from 
the  sea  but  invisible  from  the  land  side,  except 


84  The  Monks  of  Trabolgan 

for  the  thick  black  cloud  that  ascended  beneath 
Camden  Fort,  and  carried  its  odour  of  burning 
wood  far  to  sea,  and  far  inward  over  the  harbour. 

Just  at  dawn,  at  the  Feast  of  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  a large  posse  of  police  and  military 
marched  into  the  monastery  precincts,  and 
grounded  arms  before  the  now  deserted  home  of 
the  monks.  Something  in  the  aspect  of  the 
place  struck  the  Inspector  at  once.  He  turned 
around,  and  saw  a white-robed  monk  seated  on 
a rock  near  the  sea.  He  was  looking  mourn- 
fully on  a huge  pile  of  ashes  that  still  smouldered 
at  his  feet. 

“ I beg  pardon,”  said  the  officer  approaching, 
“ but  where  is  the — Superior  ? ” 

“ There ! ” said  the  monk,  pointing  to  a dim 
plume  of  smoke  that  hung  on  the  verge  of  the 
horizon. 

“ And  the  monks  ? ” said  the  officer  in  amaze- 
ment. 

“ There  ! ” said  the  monk  without  emotion. 

Just  then  a sergeant  of  police,  who  had  ex- 
amined the  empty  and  dismantled  monastery, 
came  over  and  whispered  to  the  Inspector. 

“ I understand,”  said  the  latter  sternly,  “ that 
this  house  is  evacuated,  and  the  chattels  re- 


The  Monks  of  Trabolgan  85 

moved.  Now  these  are  Crown  property — so  I 
am  instructed.  You  will,  therefore,  make  your- 
self liable  for  a felony  if  you  have  these  things 
abstracted  and  concealed.  I hold  an  exact 
inventory,  and  demand  to  be  informed  where 
they  are,  and  to  be  shown  the  place.” 

“ There ! ” said  the  monk,  pointing  to  the 
white  ashes  which  the  dawn-wind  was  now  and 
then  fanning  into  a blaze. 

The  monastery  remained  unoccupied.  A 
feeble  attempt  was  made  to  convert  it  into  a 
military  college.  But  the  White  Monk  Felix 
remained  till  his  death,  haunting  the  dear  old 
place,  and  living  from  hand  to  mouth  in  the 
peasants’  cottages,  and  the  houses  of  the  priests. 
The  deep  rumbling  of  the  printing-press  was 
heard  no  more.  But  the  fishermen,  who  have 
to  go  out  on  the  high  seas  at  midnight,  declare 
that  lights  bum  in  the  monastery  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning ; and  that  the  sounds  of 
a mighty  organ,  and  the  deep,  bass  chanting  of 
the  monks,  are  wafted  over  the  breakers  from 
the  lonely  shore. 


RITA,  THE  STREET-SINGER 
I 

It  was  a close,  sultry  day  in  the  midst  of  the 
“leafy  month  of  June.”  The  bright  air  was 
throbbing  with  heat.  Not  a breath  stirred  the 
foliage  of  the  elms  and  beeches,  in  whose  shadow 
an  occasional  twitter  told  of  the  hiding-place  of 
some  songster,  who  could  not  pour  out  the  full 
tide  of  his  music  on  the  stifling  air.  It  was  a 
day  when  rest  was  absolutely  necessary.  Work 
was  impossible.  All  ideas  of  happiness  were 
summed  up  in  a dream  of  lying  swung  from  the 
trees  in  some  leafy  arbour,  or  rocked  in  a boat 
in  the  cool  waters  of  some  sheltered  nook. 

A pile  of  correspondence  lay  before  me — 

letters  that  had  remained  unanswered  many  a 

day.  I drew  my  desk  to  the  window,  took  out 

pens  and  ink  and  paper,  and  had  just  dated 

the  first  letter,  when  buzzing,  droning  on  the 

summer  air  came  a sound  that  put  out  of  my 

mind  for  the  moment  all  thoughts  of  correspond- 

86 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  87 

ence.  Back  came  all  my  fancies  from  my  friend 
in  Devonshire,  and  my  friend  in  Dublin,  and 
my  friend  who  was  yearning  under  the  tropical 
skies  of  India  for  a word  from  “ dear  old  Ire- 
land,” to  every-day  life,  and  this  dreary  mono- 
tone of  music  that  was  startling  the  sleeping 
moths  and  butterflies  from  the  grass  and  flowers 
in  the  Park.  At  last,  after  many  interruptions, 
it  came  before  my  window.  I lifted  the  curtains 
and  looked. 

A pair  of  Italian  eyes,  black  as  midnight, 
and  set  in  an  olive  face,  shone  on  me,  and  a 
set  of  white  teeth  gleamed  forth  a salutation. 
It  was  a little  Italian  girl,  who  might  have  been 
of  any  age  from  eight  to  fourteen.  Her  black 
hair  was  tossed  and  tangled,  and  whitened  with 
dust,  her  shoulders  were  wrapped  in  a coloured 
shawl,  her  little  dress  was  patched  and  stained, 
and  her  feet — what  were  they  covered  with,  my 
little  girls  ? Softest  kid  and  cloth  ? No  ! But 
a huge  bundle  of  rags  concealed  and  disfigured 
each  foot ; and  my  fancy  went  on  and  saw 
that  these  feet  were  bruised  and  swollen  and 
bleeding,  as  they  went  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  in  time  with  the  music,  and  the  smiling 
face  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  the  hidden 


88  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

pain  and  anguish.  Poor  child,  wearily  working 
on  the  tread-mill  of  life ! On  the  hard  pave- 
ments of  mighty  cities,  along  the  dreary  roads, 
in  the  dust  of  summer,  and  the  slush  and  mire 
of  winter,  aching  and  tired,  and  sore  and  bleed- 
ing, these  poor  feet  had  carried  their  burden, 
and  danced  each  measure  in  obedience  to  the 
strong  heart  above  them.  Brave  strong  heart, 
that  sent  its  smiles  to  the  little  face,  whilst 
wrung  with  agony — agony  from  the  physical 
pain,  and  agony  from  the  fear  that  the  pence 
may  not  come,  and  the  little  home  be  fireless, 
and  the  friend  comfortless  and  supperless  in  the 
evening ! 

I took  the  poor  child  in.  A biscuit  and  a 
glass  of  pure  milk  were  very  welcome.  And 
then,  full  of  curiosity,  I asked  her  name. 

“ Rita,”  was  the  smiling  answer. 

“ And  where  does  Rita  come  from  ? ” I asked. 

“ Napoli,”  she  replied. 

“ And  where  does  Rita  now  live  ? ” I ques- 
tioned. She  flung  out  her  brown  arms  signify- 
ing the  wide,  wide  world. 

“ And  where  are  Rita’s  parents  ? ” She 
shook  herself  mournfully. 

“ And  has  Rita  no  living  friends  ? ” 


“And  where  does  Rita  come  from?”  To  face  page  88. 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  89 

Back  went  the  head  in  a little  impatient  toss, 
and  she  flung  out  the  first  finger  of  her  right 
hand,  and  an  expression  of  pain  chased  away 
the  smile  from  her  face.  I asked  no  further. 
She  bowed,  flashed  out  again  her  sunny  smile, 
and  my  summer  vision  vanished. 

I went  back  to  my  letters,  wrote  them,  sealed 
them,  and  then  sat  down  to  think.  I could 
not  put  out  of  my  mind  this  poor  child.  I had 
heard  strange  stories  of  Italian  girls  kidnapped 
from  their  homes,  and  dragged  about  the  cities 
of  Europe  by  evil  men,  who  sent  them  out  on 
this  miserable  quest  day  by  day,  and  taught 
them  to  deceive  the  kind-hearted  by  fictitious 
tales  of  starving  fathers,  or  brothers  lying  in 
sickness,  and  then  beat  the  poor  children  if 
their  begging  was  unsuccessful,  or  drank  their 
little  earnings.  Was  Rita  one  of  these  exiles  ? 
Perhaps  lying  on  the  wharves  of  this  great 
seaport  was  some  idle,  thriftless  vagabond,  who 
had  obtained  power  over  that  child,  and  was 
using  her  innocence  and  childishness  to  maintain 
himself  in  a life  of  indolence  and  sin.  Perhaps 
away  in  glorious  sunny  Naples  some  poor  mother 
was  frantically  praying  the  Madonna  to  restore 
her  child,  and  some  sturdy  young  lazzarone 


go  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

was  bewailing  the  absence  of  his  playmate. 
But,  after  all,  the  laws  are  very  stringent  against 
such  ill-doing,  and  if  there  were  such  a criminal 
here,  he  could  not  well  escape  detection.  What, 
then,  is  Rita’s  history  ? 

We  shall  see. 


II 

A few  nights  after  this  event  I had  closed 
up  my  books  and  papers,  and  was  about  to 
retire,  when  a sharp,  clear,  continued  knock 
was  thundered  at  the  door. 

“ A sick  call,”  said  the  servant. 

I made  inquiries  of  the  messenger,  and  was 
told  that  a poor  old  woman,  whom  I had  been 
attending  for  some  time,  was  lying  on  the  point 
of  death  in  a house  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town.  I hurriedly  made  my  preparations,  and 
stepped  from  the  dark  hall  into  the  moonlight. 
It  was  a beautiful  night ; all  things  were  silent 
and  still ; and  a splendour  as  of  noon  lit  up 
the  sleeping  landscape.  There  was  a faint  tinge 
of  purple  in  the  sky,  which  the  departing  sun 
had  left,  but  the  full  round  moon  flooded  all 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  91 

things  with  her  pale  light,  as  if  determined  to 
assert  her  right  to  the  empire  of  the  night. 
Across  the  dark  blue  waters  of  the  bay  there 
was  a track  of  silvery  light,  tossed  and  broken 
by  the  fretting  of  the  waves.  There  lay  the 
huge  guardship,  with  its  lines  of  white  and 
black,  and  its  frowning  guns  distinctly  visible. 
Far  out  were  the  foreign  vessels ; and  close  by 
the  quays  the  tugboats  that  had  parted  and 
tossed  the  water  all  day,  were  held  tight  and 
fast  by  their  hawsers.  One  solitary  boat  full 
of  belated  foreigners  was  making  its  way  across 
the  bay  to  its  vessel,  and  the  sound  of  its  oars 
as  they  dipped  and  flashed  in  the  moonlight 
alone  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

I came  to  the  house  marked  out,  compared 
the  number  on  the  door  with  the  number  in  my 
notebook,  and  finding  the  door  open  ascended 
the  creaking  staircase.  I stepped  lightly,  fear- 
ing to  arouse  the  occupants  who  might  be  asleep. 
On  the  second  landing,  hearing  the  sound  of 
voices,  I paused.  A broken  exclamation,  fol- 
lowed by  a moan,  then  a rapid  flood  of  words, 
spoken  in  a foreign  tongue,  and  ever  so  earnest 
and  soothing,  was  all  I heard.  I couldn’t  help 
lingering.  I heard  the  attendant  rise  and  pass 


92  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

to  a chair  or  table  and  come  back.  Then  to 
some  question  briefly  put  came  the  affirmative 
“ Si ! si ! ” of  the  Italians.  Then  softly  and 
quietly  I heard  a lullaby  song,  accompanied  by 
some  sweet  notes  from  some  musical  instrument. 
Here  it  was,  as  I afterwards  found,  a prayer  to 
the  Madonna,  the  great  Mother  of  the  Italian 
race : — 

O Vergine  bella 
Del  ciel  regina 
A cui  s’  inchina 
La  terra,  ed  il  mar. 

O tu  sei  Stella 
Del  mare  si  bella, 

Che  guida  al  porto 
Col  tuo  splendor. 

I hurried  upstairs  to  the  attics,  found  my 
poor  patient  bad  indeed.  I consoled  her  as 
best  I could  for  her  last  journey.  Then  I in- 
quired of  the  attendants  who  were  the  occupants 
of  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor. 

“ Well,  then,  your  Reverence,”  said  Mary 
Allen,  “ we  know  little  about  them,  but  a few 
days  ago  they  came  down  the  street  arm-in- 
arm like,  the  little  one  leading  her  sister,  who 
was  ill  and  fainting,  and  they  sat  down  on  the 
door-step,  and  the  neighbours  came  around 
them,  and  seeing  them  so  poor  and  destitute 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  93 

like,  we  asked  them  in,  and  they  are  since  in 
that  room,  which  was  empty  since  the  Widow 
Halligan  left  it.  There’s  a little  bed  there  and 
a chair,  or  rather,”  said  my  poor  faithful  Irish- 
woman, “ we  made  a little  bed  on  the  floor  for 
the  sick  girl,  and  we  threw  a few  gowns  and 
things  over  her,  and  there  she  lies  patient  and 
quiet  except  during  the  night,  when  ’twould 
break  your  heart  to  hear  her  cough.” 

“ And  no  one  visits  them  ? ” I asked. 

“ No,  then,  your  Reverence.  Of  course,  we 
go  down  and  give  them  a cup  of  tea  occasionally, 
and  we  sit  with  the  sick  girl  during  the  day 
and  settle  her  pillow  and  ease  her  head,  and 
sometimes  Mrs.  Hallissey  round  the  comer  there 
comes  and  brings  her  a lemon  or  an  orange,  and 
she  likes  it.” 

“ And  are  they  Catholics  ? ” I asked. 

“ Well,  then,  your  Reverence,  we  can’t  say 
for  certain,  for  not  a word  can  we  understand 
from  them ; but  we  think  they  are,  for  yester- 
day one  of  the  girls  here  who  is  very  fond  of 
the  poor  creature,  took  down  to  her  a picture 
of  Knock  Chapel,  and  it  would  do  your  heart 
good  to  see  how  the  poor  creature’s  eyes  opened 
and  began  to  shine.  And  then  we  went  a bit 


94  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

farther,  and  gave  her  our  beads  that  we  got 
blessed  at  the  last  Mission,  thank  God,  and  she 
kissed  the  Cross  like  any  Christian  ; and  there 
she  lies  the  whole  day  long,  her  big  eyes  fixed 
on  that  picture,  and  the  beads  rolling  through 
her  fingers  and  the  lips  going.  The  girls  say 
she’s  a real  saint ; but  the  little  one,  your 
Reverence,  she’s  the  queerest  creature  you  ever 
saw.  Before  we’re  up  in  the  morning,  out  she 
goes  with  that  banjo  or  thing  she  has,  and  up 
and  down,  up  and  down  through  the  streets 
she  sings  and  dances  and  plays,  and  every  one 
is  kind  to  her  and  pities  her,  and  then  she 
comes  home  fagged  and  tired,  and  she  takes 
her  little  supper,  and  then  we  all  go  away,  for 
she  stops  alone  with  her  sister,  singing  and 
whispering  through  the  night.  We  look  in 
occasionally,  and  there  she  is,  cuddled  up  like 
a ball  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ; but  she  never 
sleeps,  for  if  you  open  the  door  ever  so  little 
you  see  her  little  black  eyes  watching  you. 
But  there’s  one  curious  thing  about  her  that 
we  can’t  make  out,  for  Mary,  looking  in  the 
other  night  sudden  like,  saw  lying  on  the  chair 
a bundle  of  clothes  or  rags,  and  they  were  so 
dirty,  begging  your  Reverence’s  pardon,  you’d 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  95 

think  they  were  after  washing  the  floor,  and,” 
said  my  friend,  dropping  her  voice  to  a whisper, 
“ there  were  spots  of  blood  all  over  them.  Mary 
came  away  frightened.” 

Here,  then,  was  my  little  Rita,  clearly.  Now, 
what  was  to  be  done  ? 

“ I suppose,”  said  I,  “ it  would  be  rather  late 
to  see  them  ? ” 

“ Well,  then,  your  Reverence,”  said  Mary, 
“ it’s  all  the  same  to  them,  night  and  day.  She 
never  sleeps  during  the  night.” 

Coming  down  to  the  second  floor,  we  gently 
tapped,  and  in  answer  to  a faint  invitation, 
walked  in.  The  room  surely  was  bare  enough. 
Nothing  but  the  chair,  and  lying  on  the  little 
straw  that  made  the  bed  was  the  invalid  of 
whom  I had  heard.  Rita  started  up  and  recog- 
nised me  in  the  moonlight,  and  in  a few  words 
told  her  sister  who  I was.  The  sick  girl  turned 
round  slowly  and  fixed  her  large  eyes  on  me, 
but  spoke  not  a word.  Her  cheeks  were  sunken 
and  their  native  olive  was  tinged  with  a faint 
blush  that  told  too  clearly  of  the  deadly  work 
of  consumption.  She  breathed  heavily  and 
with  difficulty,  the  light  covering  heaving  with 
every  painful  respiration.  Large  beads  of  per- 


g6  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

spiration  stood  out  on  her  forehead,  which  Mrs. 
Allen,  kneeling  down  gently,  wiped  away  with 
many  a sigh  of  sympathy  and  many  a word  of 
comfort  in  her  own  native  Irish. 

“ Sure,  here’s  the  priest  now,  alannah,  and 
’tis  sorry  I am  we  didn’t  send  for  him  before, 
and  he’ll  pray  for  you,  and  make  you  better, 
please  God.” 

And  then  I took  her  place,  bent  over  the 
poor  sick  girl,  and  spoke  to  her  of  the  great 
Father  we  all  have  in  Heaven,  and  the  Friend 
and  Master  who  is  nearer  to  us  and  dearer  to 
us  than  all  beside,  and  the  fond  Mother  who 
opens  wide  her  arms  to  receive  us  and  gather 
us  in  safety  under  her  protection.  She  stretched 
forth  her  hand,  moist  and  damp  with  the  sweat 
of  death,  silently  pressed  mine,  and  I left  her 
there  in  the  shadow  of  the  night,  alone  with 
God. 

The  following  Sunday,  just  as  midday  Bene- 
diction was  over,  and  I was  passing  through 
the  Convent  gates,  I saw  Rita  waiting  under 
the  shadow  of  a tree.  She  was  closely  wrapped 
from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  more  than  usually 
pale.  She  silently  lifted  her  hand,  beckoned, 
and  I followed.  Her  sister’s  last  moment  was 


“ She  sat  by  the  Window,  looking  earnestly  across  the 

TRACK  OF  LIGHT  THE  SUN  WAS  MAKING  ON  THE  WATERS. 

To  face  page  gy. 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  97 

at  hand.  She  sat  on  a chair  by  the  window, 
looking  long  and  earnestly  across  the  track  of 
light  that  the  sun  was  making  on  the  waters. 
Her  brow  was  cold  and  damp,  her  eyes  widely 
opened,  her  breathing  scarcely  perceptible.  I 
spoke  to  her.  She  did  not  answer.  Fearing 
she  was  dead,  her  sister  lifted  her  and  drew 
her  back  gently.  Still  she  made  no  sign.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  with  terrible  intensity  on  some- 
thing that  we  could  not  see.  Suddenly  she 
trembled,  clasped  her  hands  together  tightly, 
and  cried,  “ O God,  Thou  art  terribly  just,  but 
be  merciful.  Pray,  Rita,  pray.  Look  at 
father’s  vessel  tossing  in  the  storm.  She  cannot 
live.  There  is  father  himself  toiling  and  strain- 
ing at  the  helm.  O God  ! what  will  they  do  ? 
And  there,  close  by  father,  is  Maddalena,  her 
eyes  wild,  her  hair  wet.  Hist ! they  are  round- 
ing the  point,  coming  for  us,  Rita.  Ah  ! I knew 
they’d  repent.  But  see,  O my  God,  they  have 
struck ! Listen  to  the  horrid  grinding  of  the 
keel.  Save  them,  O Mother  of  God,  save  them 
from  the  angry  waters.”  Then  came  a long 
pause,  and  then,  gently  swooning  away,  she 
exclaimed,  “ O God,  Thou  art  terribly  just.” 

I looked  at  Rita.  Her  sister’s  words  had 


G 


98  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

excited  her  very  much.  She,  too,  looked 
earnestly  athwart  the  waters,  where  not  a ripple 
broke  the  blue  surface.  But  in  a moment  her 
sister  had  recovered,  and  now  her  vision  was 
changed.  Peace  and  grace  were  beaming  from 
her  face  as  she  looked  with  the  calm  contem- 
plation of  a saint  at  some  new  picture  which 
her  dying  fancy  painted.  “ Do  you  remember, 
Rita,”  she  said,  holding  her  sister’s  hand  firmly 
in  her  own — “ do  you  remember  the  wonderful 
eyes  of  Madonna  that  looked  at  us  so  sadly 
and  gently  ? I see  them  now.  Do  you  re- 
member how  we  used  to  come  in  the  cool  even- 
ings to  pray  ? and  you  said  our  Lady  some 
day  would  come  down  and  give  us  her  Bambino 
to  kiss.  She  is  coming,  Rita,  to  me ; look, 
dear.  Yes,  Mother,  I am  ready.” 

She  stretched  forth  her  hands  and  leaned 
forward.  We  waited  a few  moments,  and  then 
I drew  Rita  gently  away,  whilst  the  Madonna 
and  her  Child  were  carrying  the  soul  of  her 
sister  to  Heaven. 

The  following  Tuesday  a simple  funeral  pro- 
cession passed  through  the  streets  to  the  new 
cemetery.  We  buried  the  poor  young  stranger 
in  a quiet  spot,  where  the  summer  sun  would 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  99 

shine  warmly  and  the  winter  winds  would  not 
blow  too  fiercely,  and  we  placed  over  her  grave 
a plain  wooden  cross  with  the  simple  inscription  : 

HERE  REPOSETH 
AGNESE  MONDELLA, 

BORN  AT  NAPLES,  SEPTEMBER,  1 862. 

DIED  AT  REINEVILLE,  JUNE  24TH,  1880. 

May  she  rest  in  peace  ! 

So  the  poor  stranger  was  buried.  With  great 
difficulty  we  tore  away  Rita  from  the  grave. 
She  submitted  at  last,  and  went  home  gently 
with  her  newly  found  friends.  But  next  morn- 
ing when  I inquired  for  her,  she  was  gone.  She 
must  have  left  before  daylight,  and  not  a word 
or  token  did  she  speak  or  give. 


Ill 

Now,  th£  world,  after  all,  is  very  small.  It 
looks  very  large,  and  full  of  people ; but  some- 
how, we  are  for  ever  meeting  persons  whom 
we  thought  separated  from  us  for  ever.  Five 
long  years  had  gone  by,  bringing  many  changes 
with  them.  The  grass  over  Agnese’s  grave 
was  very  long  ; the  cross  was  green  with  mould  ; 


ioo  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

the  letters  were  beginning  to  fade ; and  it  is 
no  harm  to  say  that  probably  she  was  well- 
nigh  forgotten. 

It  was  winter  time,  and  I was  obliged  to 
run  up  to  the  capital  on  business.  A long, 
cold,  weary  drive  in  the  express  train,  and  I 
found  myself  at  my  hotel,  with  every  prospect 
of  being  comfortable  for  the  evening.  I had 
scarcely  sat  down  to  dinner,  however,  when 
the  clanging  of  bells,  the  tramping  of  many 
feet,  and  a singular  silence  in  the  street,  told 
me  that  something  unusual  was  going  on.  Very 
soon  it  became  evident.  The  Theatre  Royal 
was  on  fire.  And  already  experienced  persons 
were  declaring  that  nothing  could  save  it.  I 
passed  into  the  street,  and  went  along  with 
the  stream  of  people  towards  the  burning  build- 
ing. Suddenly  a hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder, 
and,  looking  up,  I saw  an  old  schoolfellow, 
named  Edward  Ashe,  who  was  now  a resident 
pupil  in  one  of  the  city  hospitals.  We  had 
hardly  exchanged  greetings,  and  asked  the 
usual  questions,  when  a fireman,  black  and 
heated,  came  up,  and  touched  his  helmet — 

“Yer  wanted,  sir,  immediately,  at  the 
hospital.” 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  ioi 

My  young  friend  hastened  away  with  a pro- 
mise that  he  would  call  in  at  the  hotel  after 
his  work  had  been  attended  to.  I passed  on  to 
the  fire,  looked  on  curiously  like  the  rest  of 
the  crowd,  and  returned'  at  ten  o’clock  to  see 
my  friend  sitting  before  the  fire,  and  impatiently 
expecting  my  return.  He  looked  very  de- 
jected, and  after  a few  moments  he  exclaimed — 
“ I’ve  met  a curious  case  at  the  hospital. 
One  of  these  actresses,  a middle-aged  woman, 
was  severely  burnt  at  the  theatre,  and  I was 
ordered  to  attend  her.  She  is  very  bad ; I 
don’t  think  she  can  recover,  and  she  is  delirious. 
She  is  raving  about  Italy,  and  singing  snatches 
of  Italian  airs.  It  is  not  pitiful,  but  fearful, 
to  hear  her  voice  ringing  clearly  through  the 
long  wards  of  the  hospital.  But  I think  she 
has  some  terrible  trouble  on  her  mind.  She 
looks  like  a person  that  would  have  a guilty 
conscience,  and,  she  cries  out  repeatedly  in  her 
agony,  ‘ Perdono,  Agnese  ! perdono,  Rita  ! ’ ” 

“ Edward,”  I exclaimed,  “ would  you  repeat 
these  words  ? ” 

He  repeated  them.  They  brought  a thou- 
sand things  to  my  mind.  Were  they  not  the 
names  of  the  poor  waifs  that  had  come  ashore 


102  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

at  Reineville  five  years  ago  ? I made  up  my 
mind  to  see  this  woman. 

“ Will  you  go  to  the  hospital  in  the  morn- 
ing ? ” I asked  Dr.  Ashe. 

“ Yes,  I must  be  at  hospital  at  ten.” 

“ Call  for  me  and  I will  accompany  you.” 

He  looked  surprised,  but  consented.  Next 
morning  I found  myself  at  the  door  of  the 
hospital.  We  were  ushered  into  the  hall  by 
one  of  the  Sisters,  who  looked  as  calm  and 
peaceful  as  if  she  was  not  dealing  every  day 
with  every  description  of  human  misery. 

“ How  is  my  patient,  Sister  ? ” said  Edward. 

“ A great  deal  quieter,”  said  the  Sister ; 
“ but  you  know  there  is  no  hope.  She  has 
recovered  her  senses,  and  is  anxious  to  prepare 
herself  for  death.” 

“ Well,”  said  Edward,  “ I shall  see  her  first, 

and  Father  J , too,  is  anxious  for  some 

reason  of  his  own  to  say  a word  to  her.” 

“ Of  course,”  said  the  Sister,  and  I was 
ushered  into  the  physicians’  room,  until  my 
friend  returned. 

“ Now,  very  gently,”  said  the  Infirmarian, 
as  we  passed  into  the  accident  ward  of  the 
hospital.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  this  was 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  103 

a place  of  agony  and  suffering,  everything  was 
so  cool,  and  clean,  and  quiet.  There  was  no 
noise,  no  moaning,  no  cries  of  suffering.  The 
patients  in  their  tidy  beds  looked  ever  so  happy. 
In  a moment  we  were  by  the  bedside  of  the 
unhappy  actress. 

I beckoned  the  Sister  and  Dr.  Ashe  away, 
and  sat  down.  With  all  the  gentleness  in  my 
power  I spoke  to  her,  and  asked  her  if  she  ever 
knew  any  children  of  the  names  she  had  spoken 
in  her  delirium.  She  hesitated,  moved  her  lips 
in  prayer,  and  answered  “ Yes.” 

I told  her  then  what  I knew  of  the  children. 
She  was  very  quiet.  She  listened  eagerly  to 
all  I had  to  say,  but  when  I came  to  the  vision 
that  had  crossed  the  dying  eyes  of  the  young 
girl,  she  looked  terrified,  and  murmured  twice, 
“ It  was  God’s  judgment ! it  was  God’s  anger  ! ” 
And  when  I told  her  how  Agnese  had  spoken 
of  her  father  and  some  friend  named  Maddalena, 
she  wept  silently  but  freely,  and  at  length  said 
to  me,  “I  am  she  ; I am  Maddalena  ! ” After 
a while  she  said  again,  “ I am  now  tired, 
Father ; but  I must  see  you  again.  Will  you 
come  to  me  when  I send,  and  I will  tell  you 
all  ? ” I promised,  and  departed. 


104  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

That  evening  a note  was  put  into  my  hand. 
“ The  patient  whom  you  saw  this  morning  is 
asking  for  you ; she  is  very  weak ; she  won’t 
live  through  the  night.”  I was  again  on  the 
streets,  making  my  way  through  the  crowds  to 
the  bedside  of  the  poor  Italian.  I could  not 
help  noticing  the  multitudes  that  were  throng- 
ing to  a large  house  I was  passing.  I stopped, 
asked  a passer-by  what  was  the  cause  of  all 
this  bustling  and  thronging.  He  pointed  to  a 
flaming  placard,  which  told  the  world  that  a 
young  and  gifted  Italian  artist  was  this  even- 
ing to  appear  in  the  opera  of  “ Maritana.”  She 
had  been  highly  praised  in  London,  and  Paris, 
and  Vienna,  and  there  was  great  excitement 
about  her  here.  I passed  along,  thinking  how 
closely  death  and  life  are  placed  together.  Here 
were  crowds  wishing  to  hear  a young  singer ; 
here  was  I hurrying  to  the  deathbed  of  another. 

The  silence  of  the  hospital  was  deeper  than 
ever  when  I entered.  The  lights  were  out, 
and  the  patients  asleep.  We  passed  long  rows 
of  beds  in  the  darkness.  We  came  at  length 
to  one  over  which  a light  was  burning.  A 
Sister  knelt  by  the  side,  praying  and  watching. 
My  poor  friend  had  already  been  prepared  for 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  105 

death,  and  now  was  calmly  awaiting  the  dread 
summons. 

I sat  by  the  bedside,  and  without  delay  she 
asked  me,  “ Where  is  Rita  ? ” I said,  I did 
not  know.  Neither  did  I,  nor  had  I the  slightest 
suspicion  that  the  famous  singer  whom  the 
crowds  were  rushing  to  hear  was  the  little 
street  girl  whom  I had  spoken  to  five  years 
before. 

“ Because,”  said  the  dying  woman,  “ I have 
a feeling  that  she  is  near  me  to-night.  I 
thought  you  might  know.  I should  like  to 
see  her  before  I die.” 

The  Sister  moistened  her  lips  with  an  orange, 
and  she  told  me  her  strange  history  there  in 
the  night,  while  death  hung  over  her,  and  Rita 
was  thrilling  the  vast  audience  in  the  neigh- 
bouring theatre. 

“ I was  bom  at  Genoa,”  she  said  ; “ at  least 
I think  so,  for  I remember  nothing  until  I 
was  seven  years  old,  and  what  I remember 
then  was,  that  I used  to  carry  oranges  and 
figs  to  the  foreign  vessels  in  our  harbour,  and 
sleep  at  night  in  the  porches  of  churches.  I 
never  had  any  name  but  Maddalena.  I never 
knew  father  or  mother.  When  I was  twelve. 


106  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

I was  picked  up  by  some  strollers,  and  joined 
a tribe  of  Gipsies.  We  came  to  Naples.  I 
left  them  there,  and  became  a servant  in  a 
large  English  mansion,  where  I remained  nearly 
five  years.  Then  I became  the  wife  of  Mon- 
della.  He  was  a sea-captain,  trading  along 
the  west  coast  of  Europe  in  olives,  sugar,  and 
wine.  Sometimes  he  would  go  away  on  long 
voyages,  sometimes  he  would  return  in  a few 
weeks.  He  was  a widower,  and  had  two  chil- 
dren, whom  you  knew,  Agnese  and  Rita. 
Agnese  was  tall  and  delicate,  Rita  was  strong 
and  active.  Both  were  very  good.  Their 

mother  must  have  been  a saint,  because  her 
children  were  saints.  Their  father  worshipped 
them.  I grew  jealous  of  the  love  of  the  father. 
I grew  by  degrees  to  hate  those  children ; they 
never  knew  it.  Hand  in  hand  they  used  to 
go  in  the  soft  twilight  to  the  church,  and  sit 
for  hours  before  the  altar,  praying  and  speak- 
ing of  the  saints  and  the  Madonna.  Many  a 
night  I crept  to  their  chamber,  and  heard 
them  pray  for  father,  and  pray,  too,  for  me. 
They  both  had  beautiful  voices,  Agnese’s  pure, 
and  clear,  and  soft ; Rita’s,  deep  and  rich. 
The  father  had  also  a magnificent  voice,  and 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  107 

the  people  of  the  neighbourhood  would  crowd 
round  our  house  by  night  to  hear  the  three  beau- 
tiful voices  blending  together.  They  formed 
our  church  choir,  and  the  Padre  declared 
that  no  one  else  should  sing  in  the  church,  so 
long  as  Mondella  and  his  children  were  there. 
Yet  I disliked  these  children  all  the  more  from 
the  love  which  their  father  gave  them.  He 
had  taught  them  all  the  beautiful  music  of 
our  operas,  and  whenever  he  returned  from  a 
long  voyage,  the  children  would  go  down  to 
the  pier  to  meet  him.  The  moment  the  vessel 
came  near  enough,  the  deep  bass  voice  of  the 
father  would  come  sounding  over  the  waves, 
and  the  children,  laughing  and  flinging  their 
scarves  around  them,  would  chant  back  some 
piece  from  a favourite  duet,  and  the  singing 
would  go  on,  the  sailors  sometimes  joining  in 
the  chorus,  till  Mondella  put  his  foot  on  the 
pier,  and  clasped  his  children  in  his  arms.  Oh ! 
how  angry  I used  to  be ! I could  sing  too, 
but  the  children’s  voices  he  loved  most  dearly, 
and  I had  to  sing  to  my  guitar,  for  he  would 
not  listen  to  me. 

“ This  state  of  things  could  not  last.  We 
might  have  been  very  happy,  had  I wished ; 


108  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

but  the  demon  of  jealousy  got  hold  of  me.  I 
struggled,  oh ! so  hard  against  it,  but  finally 
yielded ; and  then  came  the  question,  what 
should  I do,  for  they  and  I could  not  live 
together.  I thought  of  many  evil  things, 
thought  of  running  away  and  returning  to  my 
gipsy  life,  thought  of  secretly  selling  the  chil- 
dren to  some  roving  band,  who  would  demand 
money  for  their  release,  thought  of  more  terrible 
things  still,  and  then  came  an  event  which  put 
all  previous  plans  from  my  mind,  for  it  gave 
me  an  opportunity  of  doing  what  I desired, 
but  still  dreaded.  On  his  return  from  the  last 
voyage,  Mondella  invited  myself  and  the  girls 
to  accompany  him  as  soon  as  he  got  orders  to 
sail  again.  We  accepted  the  invitation  with 
pleasure ; I,  because  I hoped  to  rid  myself  of 
these  tormenting  children  for  ever ; and  they, 
poor  souls,  because  the  novelty  of  the  voyage 
was  attractive,  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  foreign 
shores  and  all  the  good  things  that  fancy  pro- 
mised them.  We  were  impatient  for  the  orders 
which  were  to  send  the  good  ship  once  more 
on  her  mission  over  the  waves.  We  counted 
the  days  ; and  Agnese  and  Rita  spent  many 
a sleepless  night  wondering  and  hoping  that 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  109 

the  morning  would  bring  the  long-wished-for 
papers.  At  last  they  came ; then  there  were 
a few  days  of  busy  preparation,  and  at  last 
the  morning  came  for  our  departure.  All  the 
villagers  thronged  the  pier  to  say  ‘ Good-bye,’ 
for  the  girls  were  the  pride  of  the  simple  in- 
habitants. And  any  one  but  myself  would 
have  loved  them  as  they  stood  by  their  father’s 
side  on  the  vessel,  Agnese  dressed  in  pure 
white,  and  looking  in  her  delicate  beauty  like 
a statue  of  her  patron  saint ; and  Rita  in  blue, 
bright  and  vivacious  at  the  prospect  of  a plea- 
sant time  on  the  blue  waters.  There  also  was 
the  Padre,  who  came  down  to  bless  the  ship 
for  her  long  voyage.  Well,  I remember  how 
he  warned  us  all,  and  seemed  to  look  into  the 
depths  of  my  heart  as  he  spoke,  to  bring  back 
to  him  his  two  dear  children,  ‘ for,’  said  he, 
and  his  voice  trembled,  ‘ the  old  church  will 
be  silent  till  they  return.  May  it  be  soon,  for 
something  whispers  me  I shall  not  see  them 
again.’ 

“ Every  one  seemed  sad.  They  sang  with 
trembling  voices  in  echo  to  the  song  of  the 
sailors,  as  the  anchor  was  heaved,  and  while 
the  fond  farewells  came  over  the  waves,  I passed 


no  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

down  into  the  cabin,  and  when  I next  looked 
abroad  over  the  waters,  there  was  not  a speck 
on  the  horizon.  Then  I commenced  to  work 
out  my  deadly  sin.  Gradually  and  silently  as 
the  ice  gathers  and  hardens  on  the  water,  I 
made  the  father’s  heart  cold  and  suspicious 
of  the  beings  whom  he  had  fondly  loved.  Don’t 
ask  me  how  I did  it.  I cannot  tell  even  myself. 
When  an  evil  thought  arises  in  the  mind,  it  is 
not  difficult  to  find  means  to  accomplish  it. 
The  Evil  Spirit  is  always  near  at  hand,  with 
means  adapted  to  the  evil  work.  And  I had 
no  hopes  of  being  so  successful  in  my  crime, 
when  the  thought  first  flashed  on  me.  But 
the  days  went  on,  and  I dropped  the  poison 
stealthily  into  his  heart,  and  it  took  effect. 
Meanwhile,  the  children  had  made  themselves 
the  idols  of  the  sailors.  They  sang  and  played 
and  amused  the  men  in  a thousand  ways.  Rita 
climbed  with  them  into  the  rigging,  where 
they  had  fitted  up  a look-out  specially  for  her ; 
Agnese  stood  at  the  prow,  looking  out  dreamily 
over  the  waters,  and  the  sailors  believed  in 
her  as  if  she  had  been  deputed  to  act  as  guardian 
Angel  to  the  vessel.  They  would  have  gone 
in  that  ship  to  the  North  Pole,  they  would 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  in 

have  navigated  her  in  the  stormy  Antarctic 
Seas,  so  long  as  that  beautiful  figure  of  purity 
and  hope  protected  them.  As  for  me,  I seldom 
spoke  to  them,  for  I feared  with  a guilty  con- 
science to  face  them. 

“ At  last  my  time  came.  We  put  into  the 
harbour  of  Reineville,  on  the  southern  coast 
of  Ireland.  It  was  summer,  and  very  warm 
for  a northern  latitude.  We  lay  at  anchor  for 
many  days.  The  sailors  began  to  complain. 
Why  did  we  delay  ? Twice  a favourable  breeze 
sprang  up,  and  many  a barque  sailed  out  into 
the  open  sea,  yet  we  lingered.  The  sailors  grew 
mutinous.  Mondella  was  gloomy  and  stem.  I 
had  persuaded  him  at  last  to  second  me  in  my 
crime — to  abandon  the  children  in  this  harbour. 
Long  and  terribly  he  struggled.  The  memory 
of  their  dead  mother,  the  old  love  he  bore  the 
children,  the  pleasant  welcome  in  sunny  Naples, 
the  innocence  and  the  purity  of  the  children, 
— all  fought  against  my  sinful  torturings  of 
the  father’s  heart ; but  sin  is  the  conqueror 
in  this  sad  world,  and  I,  who  had  abandoned 
myself  to  sin,  was  conqueror  here.  You  ask, 
how  could  I do  it  ? How  could  I abandon 
these  dear  children  on  that  shore  ? Did  not 


1 12  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

the  pale  face  of  Agnese  plead  with  me,  and 
against  me  ? Did  I not  know  that  I was 
dooming  her  to  certain  death  ? Well,  I am 
only  telling  my  tale.  One  morning  Mondella 
gave  orders  to  sail.  The  men  obeyed  cheer- 
fully. Agnese  and  Rita  were  in  high  spirits 
at  the  prospect  of  returning  home  speedily. 
They  had  gathered  together  all  kinds  of  strange 
things  at  the  different  ports  at  which  we  had 
touched.  Presents  for  the  ragged  brown  chil- 
dren, for  their  playmates,  and  a splendid  snuff- 
box for  their  Padre.  Little  did  they  know 
that  they  were  leaving  all  behind.  Little  did 
they  dream  of  the  awful  crime  I was  meditating 
against  them.  At  noon,  the  long-boat  was 
ordered  out,  and  six  sailors,  Agnese  and  Rita, 
Mondella  and  I,  entered  her.  I was  afraid  he 
would  relent  at  the  last  moment,  and  was  de- 
termined that  now  or  never  I should  succeed.  We 
landed,  purchased  some  provisions,  and  returned 
to  the  pier.  The  girls  had  turned  towards  the 
town,  as  if  to  get  a last  long  look  at  some 
familiar  object.  The  boat  was  ready.  I sat 
at  the  prow,  Mondella  at  the  stern.  He  said 
quietly,  but  sternly,  ‘ Give  way.’  The  sailors 
did  not  heed  him.  ‘ Give  way,’  said  he,  more 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  1 1 3 

angrily.  One  of  the  men,  a rough  Neapolitan, 
touched  his  cap,  and  respectfully  called  Mon- 
della’s  attention  to  the  children  on  the  pier. 
They  had  now  looked  round,  and  were  hasten- 
ing to  the  boat.  With  an  oath,  which  I never 
heard  him  use  before,  Mondella  shouted  again, 
‘ Give  way,’  and  the  men  dipped  their  oars  in 
the  water,  and  we  glided  away  from  the  shore. 
The  sailors  thought  their  captain  only  intended 
to  frighten  the  children.  If  they  had  known 
my  dreadful  purpose,  they  certainly  would 
have  mutinied.  Silently  they  plied  their  oars 
— silent  sat  Mondella,  his  face  wrapped  in  his 
huge  sea-cloak. 

“ We  had  gone  half-way  across  the  bay,  when 
I looked  again.  Agnese  was  leaning,  a pale, 
dead  figure,  against  the  rough  green  railings 
that  surround  the  pier,  and  Rita  was  beside 
her,  terror-stricken,  but,  oh ! so  faithful  and 
tender,  as  she  clung  to  her  sister  and  supported 
her  in  her  arms.  We  mounted  the  ladder. 
Dark  angry  faces  from  the  boat  met  dark 
scowling  faces  on  the  deck.  The  truth  soon 
became  known.  A few  of  the  rough  men  shed 
bitter  tears,  and  many  a dinner  was  untasted 
that  day.  But  deep,  bitter  hatred  took  hold 

H 


1 14  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

of  these  sailors’  hearts  when  they  heard  that 
their  sweet  children  were  cast  on  shore.  Now 
and  again  during  the  watches  I heard  rough 
voices  mutter,  ‘ Demons,’  ‘ murderer,’  but  the 
strong  voice  of  Mondella,  which  they  had  never 
disobeyed,  kept  down  sternly  the  mutinous 
spirit  that  was  rising.  The  anchor  was  heaved, 
the  sails  were  filled,  and  in  silence  and  gloom, 
and  the  darkness  of  evening,  and  with  the  sense 
of  an  awful  crime  hanging  over  the  devoted 
vessel,  we  passed  beyond  the  lighthouse,  and 
steered  for  the  open  sea. 

“ Many  a weary  day  and  night  we  sailed. 
Not  a word  of  joy,  not  a song  of  cheerfulness 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  solitary  waters.  Mon- 
della never  spoke,  except  to  give  orders  ; the 
sailors  whispered  to  one  another,  but  never 
uttered  a word  to  the  captain  or  to  me.  You 
have  a legend  in  your  language,  called  the 
‘ Ancient  Mariner,’  in  which  it  is  told  how  a 
sailor  shot  a beautiful  bird,  and  it  was  hung 
around  his  neck,  as  the  penalty  of  his  crime, 
and  all  kinds  of  evils  followed  the  doomed  ship, 
and  his  hapless  comrades.  Something  like  this 
was  our  fate.  We  had  sinned  : and  sooner  or 
later,  our  punishment  would  come  upon  us. 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  1 1 5 

It  was  even  nearer  than  we  supposed.  We  did 
not  return  to  Naples ; we  dared  not  return 
without  the  children.  We  put  into  Antwerp 
for  a few  days  ; and  then  determined  to  coast 
along  by  France  and  Spain,  exchange  our  crew, 
and  at  last  return  home,  and  say  the  children 
had  died,  and  no  one  could  give  testimony 
against  us.  A few  weary  months  passed  by. 
We  had  failed  to  obtain  a new  crew,  and  were 
obliged  to  keep  on  the  sailors  whom  we  had 
hitherto  employed.  And  they,  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  us,  remained  with  us  in  spite  of 
their  superstitious  fears  that  evil  would  come 
upon  us  and  upon  them  for  the  crime.  Perhaps 
they  hoped  that  we  would  return,  and  take 
back  the  children,  and  that  all  would  be  well 
again.  In  the  beginning  of  December  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  Bristol  Channel,  and  as 
the  weather  looked  very  uncertain,  we  were 
bearing  up  for  a port  of  refuge  on  the  southern 
English  coast.  All  at  once,  a hurricane  sprang 
up,  and  for  several  hours  we  drifted  before  it, 
at  terrific  speed,  sea  after  sea  sweeping  our 
decks,  and  with  the  sails  torn  into  ribbons  by 
the  fury  of  the  blast.  As  you  may  suppose, 
we  were  terribly  frightened.  The  men  worked 


1 1 6 Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

with  a will,  tearing  down  the  shattered  sails, 
and  making  the  vessel  tight  under  the  awful 
pressure  of  the  wind.  Still,  one  could  easily 
see  how  terrified  they  were.  They  felt,  and 
so  did  I,  that  the  hour  of  just  judgment  was 
coming  fast  upon  the  ship. 

“The  morning  broke,  the  gale  had  not 
abated ; we  took  soundings ; we  were  drifting  on 
to  a rock-bound  coast.  A group  of  sailors  was 
gathered  round  the  wheel.  They  were  gesticu- 
lating wildly,  and  in  a moment  one  came  for- 
ward, and  asked  Mondella  what  was  this  coast 
on  which  they  were  drifting.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  said  quietly,  ‘ The  coast  of 
Ireland.’  ‘ What  part  ? ’ said  the  sailor.  ‘ Just 
outside  the  harbour  of  Reineville,’  said  Mon- 
della. ‘ Exactly  what  we  thought,’  said  the 
man,  as  he  retired  and  communicated  the  fatal 
intelligence  to  his  companions.  From  that 
moment  the  sailors  refused  to  put  a hand  to 
the  ship.  Mondella  swore  at  them,  threatened 
them.  They  were  silent,  but  determined.  ‘ We 
knew  it  all  along,’  they  said,  ‘ we  knew  it 
should  come ; such  a terrible  crime  could  not 
pass  unpunished ; now  the  vengeance  of  God 
is  falling  upon  us  ; there  is  no  hope.  We  cannot 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  117 

fight  against  God.’  With  my  assistance,  Mon- 
della  threw  out  signals  of  distress.  They  were 
answered  on  shore. 

“ Nearer  and  nearer  we  approached.  We 
passed  out  two  anchors,  but  the  chains  were 
snapped  in  a moment.  We  could  see  the  white 
foam,  crawling  up  on  the  rocks  and  swirling 
and  curling  in  tiny  whirlpools  between  the 
sunken  reefs.  We  could  see  the  white  faces  of 
the  men  on  shore,  as  they  prepared  to  send  their 
rockets  flying  over  our  heads.  The  ship  was 
rolling  heavily,  flung  to  this  side  and  to  that 
by  the  furious  waves.  The  men  had  clambered 
into  the  rigging ; Mondella  stood  at  the  wheel ; 
I was  near  him,  lashed  to  the  wheel  with  ropes. 
At  last  one  terrible  wave  came  upon  us.  I saw 
it  approaching.  I could  look  through  the  green, 
transparent  mass  of  water  as  it  frothed  and 
curled,  and  bore  down  on  us.  Then  I shut  my 
eyes.  I was  drenched  from  head  to  heel.  I 
looked  round  ; Mondella  was  gone  from  my  side. 
In  another  moment  came  a shock  as  if  the  ship 
were  parting  asunder.  I could  hear  the  grating 
of  the  keel  on  the  rocks.  I could  hear  the  rush 
of  the  waters  into  the  cabin.  I looked  to  the 
rigging.  All  the  men  were  swept  away  but  two. 


1 1 8 Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

They  slowly  descended,  their  faces  and  hands 
bleeding,  came  to  the  wheel  to  which  I was 
lashed,  cut  the  ropes,  and  set  me  free.  I couldn’t 
stir ; I was  frozen  and  weak  from  the  beating 
of  the  waves.  They  bore  me  gently  to  the  side 
of  the  vessel.  In  a moment  a rocket  was  shot 
from  the  shore,  and  its  rope  made  fast  to  the 
rigging.  I fainted  away  ; and  when  I recovered 
consciousness,  I saw  the  faces  of  men  and 
women  bending  over  me,  with  looks  of  compas- 
sion and  pity.  I looked  around,  and  saw  the 
black  thatch  and  the  smoked  rafters  of  a fisher- 
man’s cabin  ; I knew  I was  saved,  and  thanked 
God  for  His  mercy. 

“ Then  I said  ‘ Mondella,’  and  they  whispered 
he  was  saved  too,  but  that  I must  not  speak 
again.  So  I lay  quiet,  I thought,  for  many 
days.  And  after  many  days  I was  able  to  move 
about  again.  The  first  sight  that  met  my  eyes 
was  the  wreck  of  the  doomed  ship,  lifted  high 
upon  the  beach.  The  second  sight  was  the 
graves  of  our  brave  sailors,  whose  superstitious 
fears  were  only  too  well  grounded.  After  a 
little  while,  when  I had  strength  to  depart,  I 
left  the  quiet  fishing  village,  and  wandered,  a 
lonely  woman,  through  the  world.  But  every- 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  119 

where  I was  haunted  by  the  apparition  of  these 
two  faces  that  looked  after  us,  pale  and  despair- 
ing, when  we  abandoned  them.  I have  not 
seen  Mondella  since.  He  was  saved  from  the 
wreck,  and  left  for  a neighbouring  city  very 
soon.  All  tidings  of  him,  however,  have  been 
lost.  I think  he  did  not  care  to  meet  me  again. 
I had  brought  terrible  troubles  upon  him.  I 
had  made  him  commit  an  unpardonable  sin. 
Through  me  he  lost  his  children  and  his  vessel. 
I am  sure  he  must  have  assumed  a strange  name, 
and  is  still  living  under  it,  lest  I should  discover 
him.  But  I do  not  care  to  do  so.  Since  that 
terrible  day  I have  earned  my  own  bread.  I 
became  a gipsy  again,  and  joined  a company 
of  actors.  With  them  I have  lived  comfortable, 
but  not  happy.  Nor  shall  I die  happy,  until  I 
shall  be  assured  of  the  forgiveness  of  Agnese 
and  Rita.” 

She  paused.  The  Sister  wiped  the  damp  dews 
from  her  forehead  with  a sponge.  And  then  I 
told  her  what  I knew  of  the  children,  of  Agnese’s 
illness,  of  Rita’s  care,  of  the  vision  of  the  ship- 
wreck that  came  across  the  eyes  of  the  dying 
girl,  of  her  forgiveness  and  her  dying  words. 
She  was  silent,  but  looked  inexpressibly  happy. 


120  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

I passed  from  the  room,  leaving  her,  as  I left 
Agnese  years  before,  in  the  darkness,  alone  with 
God. 


IV 

The  following  day  the  city  was  ringing  with  the 
praises  of  the  wonderful  singer,  whose  youth  and 
grace  and  talent  had  captivated  all  hearts.  The 
newspapers  devoted  whole  columns  to  descrip- 
tions of  her  rare  powers  ; and  on  reading  over 
one  of  these  articles,  which  contained  a brief 
history  of  her  life,  the  truth  flashed  on  me 
suddenly,  that  this  great  wonder  was  none  othe? 
than  Rita,  the  little  ragged  street-singer  of  a 
few  years  ago.  A few  inquiries  confirmed  the 
truth  of  my  surmises,  and  at  last  I determined 
to  call  to  see  her,  knowing  all  that  I did  about 
Maddalena. 

Next  day,  therefore,  I drove  to  the  hotel  where 
she  was  staying  ; and  was  ushered  into  a magni- 
ficent private  drawing-room,  where  I was  left 
to  amuse  myself  with  drawings,  photographs,  &c. 
After  a little  while  the  door  opened,  and  there 
entered  a lady,  so  bright,  and  dressed  with  such 
splendour,  that  I could  not  recognise  her.  She 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  12 1 

advanced  quietly,  and  held  out  her  two  hands  to 
me,  and  I knew  then  that  I was  speaking  to  the 
same  Rita,  whom  I had  succoured  and  assisted 
only  a few  years  ago.  How  changed  she  is ! 
What  wonderful  Providence  has  protected  her, 
and  made  her  so  great  ? What  is  her  history, 
since  she  left  us  suddenly  on  the  morning  that 
Agnese  was  buried  ? Such  were  the  thoughts  that 
crossed  my  mind,  whilst  Rita  was  summoning 
up  courage  to  ask  me,  had  I seen  her  father  ? 
This  was  the  one  thought  of  her  life ; this,  the 
great  question  ; this,  the  one  thing  that  troubled 
her  amidst  all  the  splendours  and  excitement  of 
the  new  life  she  was  leading. 

I had  nothing  to  say  of  her  father  ; but  “Tell 
me,”  said  I,  “ your  own  history  first,  and  then 
I have  something  to  tell  you.” 

Without  hesitation  she  commenced  : — 

“ That  morning,  after  Agnese’s  burial,  I found 
myself  alone  in  a strange  country,  and  amongst 
strange  people.  The  loneliness  of  my  life  came 
upon  me  terribly.  I felt  as  if  I too  could  cheer- 
fully die,  and  be  laid  with  my  beloved  sister.  I 
thought  what  had  I done,  that  God  should  afflict 
me  ? I thought  of  the  awful  crime  my  father 
had  committed  against  us,  and  I asked  for  the 


122  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

hundredth  time  what  had  made  him  change  so 
much  towards  us.  Then  I began  to  think,  what 
should  I do  ? Where  should  I go  ? I was  in 
despair.  Suddenly  I found  myself  singing  that 
psalm  of  Complin  where  the  words  occur  : * He 
hath  given  His  angels  charge  over  thee,  to  guard 
thee  in  all  thy  ways.  In  their  hands  they  shall 
bear  thee,  lest  thou  dash  thy  foot  against  a 
stone.’  You  know,  we  used  to  sing  in  our 
village  church  at  home,  and  I was  specially 
fond  of  the  evening  service ; I felt  an  inspira- 
tion that  God  and  our  Lady  would  not  abandon 
me ; that  I was  the  child  of  Providence  and 
the  child  of  the  Madonna.  I wandered  down 
to  the  quay,  I rested  against  the  railings  on 
which  Agnese  leaned  on  that  terrible  day  when 
we  were  abandoned.  I imagined  again  that 
awful  scene,  and  the  despair  that  came  upon  us  ; 
and  once  more  my  spirits  were  sinking  when  I 
heard  a gruff  voice  : * Come  along,  little  one, 
you  can  play  for  us  while  we  row.’  A party 
of  rough  men  and  a few  women  were  moving 
to  a boat  that  was  moored  under  the  quay ; 
and  without  a word,  and  without  any  fear,  I 
went  with  them.  They  were  going  to  a large 
Transatlantic  steamer  that  lay  outside  the 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  123 

harbour,  and  they  hoped  to  be  able  to  sell  to 
the  passengers  the  oranges,  apples,  &c.,  with 
which  their  boat  was  stocked.  They  handed  me 
an  orange,  seated  me  in  the  stem  of  the  boat, 
and  we  rowed  across  the  harbour,  the  oars  keep- 
ing time  with  the  music  that  I was  playing. 
Very  soon  we  came  under  the  shadow  of  the 
mighty  ship.  I had  never  seen  anything  like 
it  before.  My  father’s  ship  was  large,  but  this 
was  very  much  larger.  It  seemed  to  me  like  a 
mountain  on  the  waters.  The  crew  went  on  board, 
but  I remained  behind  and  continued  playing, 
hoping  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  passengers. 

“ Presently  a few  ladies  and  gentlemen  gathered 
together,  and  leant  over  the  bulwarks  of  the 
vessel.  One  lady  in  particular  looked  at  me, 
as  if  her  eyes  would  burn  into  my  soul,  and 
said  at  last  in  perfect  Italian,  ‘ This  is  tire- 
some, child  ; can’t  you  sing  ? ’ Nothing  loth, 
I laid  down  the  accordion,  stood  up  in  the  stern, 
and  sang  with  gestures  one  of  those  operatic 
airs  which  my  father  had  taught  us.  Before 
I had  done,  a crowd  had  gathered  on  the  side 
of  the  vessel,  and  money  was  showered  into  the 
little  boat.  But  when  the  crew  had  returned, 
and  the  anchor  was  swung  up,  and  all  prepara- 


124  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

tions  made  for  our  departure,  I was  beckoned 
on  board  by  the  lady  of  whom  I had  spoken. 
She  inquired  who  I was,  and  what  was  my 
history,  then  hastily  spoke  to  the  captain,  and 
then  informed  me  that  I was  not  to  return, 
but  proceed  with  her  on  the  voyage.  We  de- 
scended to  the  ladies’  cabin,  and  my  first  act 
was  to  kneel  down,  and  thank  God  that  I had 
not  lost  confidence  in  Him. 

“ The  lady  belonged  to  a company  that  were 
going  to  America  to  carry  out  an  engagement 
there,  and  she  was  the  leading  singer,  the  prima 
donna  of  the  company.  I became  her  maid. 
She  made  me  again  repeat  more  fully  for  her 
my  history.  She  wept  when  I told  her  all  that 
Agnese  and  I had  suffered.  In  the  evening  she 
brought  me  into  the  saloon,  where  I played  and 
sang.  Then  suddenly  she  stopped  me,  and  com- 
manded me  to  tell  aloud  all  that  I had  told  in 
secret.  They  must  have  been  very  good  people, 
for  they  pitied  me  so  much,  and  the  lady  used 
to  cry  and  ask  me  all  about  Agnese.  I had  to 
sing  all  my  songs  for  them  ; and  one  day  a tall, 
dark  gentleman  said  to  me  very  kindly,  ‘ Rita, 
you  will  be  famous  yet.’  I did  not  know  what 
he  meant. 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  125 

“ We  came  to  New  York.  Every  evening  I 
had  to  dress  my  mistress’  hair  for  the  opera, 
and  on  these  occasions  I had  to  sing  for  her  the 
whole  time,  and  she  always  kissed  me  when  she 
stepped  into  her  carriage.  During  the  day,  too, 
a foreign  gentleman,  a German,  used  to  come 
to  the  house,  and  I was  obliged  to  spend  hours 
with  him  whilst  he  taught  me.  I then  discovered 
that  I had  a great  deal  to  learn,  for  I had  to 
commence  again  in  a new  way  to  learn,  and 
many  things  I thought  beautiful  I had  to 
abandon  altogether.  But  I soon  learned  how 
poor,  how  weak  my  singing  was.  For  one 
evening,  just  as  I had  finished  my  lady’s  toilette, 
I asked  her  tremblingly  would  she  take  me  to 
the  opera.  She  looked  surprised,  then  said,  as 
if  speaking  to  herself,  ‘ Would  it  be  well  for 
the  child  ? ’ and  finally  consented.  I wrapped 
myself  up,  entered  the  carriage  with  her,  and 
soon  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a crowd  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  grandly  dressed  in  a large 
room  that  opened  out  upon  another,  which  I 
found  was  the  stage.  I was  frightened,  but  I 
kept  close  to  my  mistress.  I heard  great  noise, 
as  of  talking  in  front ; and  I think  I must  have 
looked  dazed,  for  my  mistress  beckoned  to  a 


126  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

young  friend  of  hers,  who  took  me  gently  by 
the  hand  and  led  me  into  the  theatre,  where 
I sat  in  mute  astonishment  until  the  curtain 
was  lifted,  and  there  stood  my  lady.  What  shall 
I say  ? She  sang,  and  I thought  my  senses 
would  leave  me.  I grew  white  and  rigid ; and 
clenched  my  hands  together,  and  could  neither 
speak  nor  think  while  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  divine  harmony.  It  was  over  ; the  applause 
had  subsided ; I saw  my  mistress  bowing  and 
smiling  at  me,  yet  there  I sat  and  couldn’t  stir, 
until  I heard  some  one  say,  ‘ What  ails  that 
Italian  girl  ? ’ Then  I rose  up,  went  to  meet 
my  mistress,  and  drove  home  with  her  without 
uttering  a word. 

“ That  night,  as  I attended  her,  my  strange 
emotion  continued.  I couldn’t  speak,  but  wept 
silently.  At  last  she  bade  me  sit  beside  her, 
took  my  two  hands  in  her  own,  and  said, 
‘ Rita,  my  child,  you  are  amazed  and  astonished 
by  what  you  have  seen  and  heard.  Know, 
then,  that  God  has  given  you  talents  and  a gift 
far  greater  than  I possess.  Friends  unknown 
to  you  are  silently  watching  you,  watching  your 
voice  growing  in  strength  and  sweetness  every 
day.  Before  many  years,  and  when  my  voice 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  127 

shall  be  no  longer  heard,  you  will  be  the  wonder 
and  pride  of  our  musical  world.  Far  more 
grateful  to  me  than  this  thought,  however,  is 
the  reflection  that  you  are  deeply  religious,  and 
that  you  give  promise  that  you  will  not  forget 
the  great  God  who  has  watched  over  you  so 
well,  when,  hereafter,  your  ears  are  filled  with 
the  praises  of  the  world.’ 

“ I kissed  her  hands,  and  told  her  how  deeply 
grateful  I was  to  her.  The  change  came  on  me 
suddenly.  Before  I had  time  to  think  I was 
famous.  My  name  was  in  the  mouths  of  men  be- 
fore I had  forgotten  my  privations  and  sorrows. 
My  dear  benefactress  sees  me  occasionally ; and 
I tell  her  every  time  I see  her,  as  I tell  you  now, 
that  the  more  my  name  is  spoken  of  amongst 
men,  the  more  fully  do  I throw  myself  on  the 
tender  mercies  of  my  God.  Rita,  the  street- 
singer,  was  far  more  self-confident,  far  more  in- 
dependent, than  Rita,  the  great  artist.” 

She  was  silent  a few  moments,  and  I was 
pondering  on  the  strange  story  I had  heard. 
Then,  drawing  a deep  sigh,  she  cried,  “ I think 
I should  be  happy  if  I could  see  my  dear  father 
again.  And  I feel  that  I shall  see  him — how 
or  where,  God  only  knows.” 


128  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

“ I have  not  seen  your  father,”  said  I,  “ but 
I have  seen  another  very  dear  to  you ; I mean 
Maddalena.” 

I watched  her  face.  She  started  slightly,  but 
said  nothing.  Then,  without  revealing  Madda- 
lena’s  crime,  I told  her  painful  history,  and 
when  I had  ended  she  rose  suddenly,  and,  in 
a voice  broken  with  emotion,  cried,  “ Take  me 
to  her.” 

“ She  may  be  dead,”  said  I,  fearing  the  terrible 
shock  Rita  would  receive  if  she  found  her  step- 
mother lifeless. 

“No  matter,  take  me  to  her,”  again  she  cried  ; 
and  I could  only  comply  with  her  urgent  request. 

We  rolled  along  in  her  carriage  to  the  hospital 
door,  once  more  passed  through  the  ward,  when 
a Sister  met  us  and  said,  “ Not  here ; come 
with  me  ; ” and  she  led  us  across  the  grounds 
to  a lonely  house  that  stood  by  itself  near  the 
walls.  She  opened  the  door ; the  gloom  was 
made  visible  by  six  lights  that  burned  at  the 
foot  of  a bed  on  which  lay  a white- veiled  figure. 
We  approached,  knelt,  and  prayed,  Rita  bury- 
ing her  face  in  the  bedclothes.  After  a while 
we  rose.  The  Sister  gently  lifted  a white  cloth 
from  the  face  and  revealed  the  features  of  Mad- 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  129 

dalena.  They  were  all  unchanged,  except  for 
the  scars  left  by  the  burns.  Long  and  silently 
Rita  gazed  on  the  face  of  her  who  had  done  her 
such  fearful  wrong,  then  she  stooped  gently  and 
kissed  the  face  on  the  brow  and  lips,  and  we 
passed  from  the  house  of  death  into  the  busy 
and  noisy  world.  So  was  Rita  united  to  her 
stepmother.  Was  she  united  with  her  father  ? 
We  shall  see. 

Charity  is  the  queen  of  virtues  : and  it  is 
never  better  seen  than  in  those  who  have  been 
raised  by  God’s  Providence  from  poverty  to 
affluence,  from  misery  to  comfort.  Now,  Rita 
made  charity  the  practice  of  her  life.  She 
never  undertook  any  serious  engagement  without 
promising  at  the  same  time  to  devote  part  of 
her  profits  to  the  poor ; and  she  never  left  any 
great  city  or  centre  of  population  without  having 
given  a special  entertainment  for  the  charitable 
Institutions  that  happened  to  exist  there. 

V 

It  was  the  close  of  the  year  1880.  The  winter 

Operatic  Season  was  just  closing ; and  Rita  was 

1 


130  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

after  adding  fresh  laurels  to  those  already  gained. 
It  was  admitted  that  she  was  peerless,  had  no 
equal  on  the  stage.  She  had  had  a specially 
brilliant  season  in  a great  Southern  city ; and 
carrying  out  her  great  principle,  she  had  arranged 
for  an  entertainment  to  be  given  in  the  presence 
of  the  inmates  of  the  asylums,  orphanages,  and 
refuges  of  the  city.  The  general  public  were 
to  be  admitted  on  payment  of  a large  stun, 
which  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  charities  above 
mentioned.  The  great  day  came.  The  vast 
theatre  was  filled  from  floor  to  ceiling.  Not 
an  inch  of  space  was  to  be  had.  And  when  all 
were  seated,  silent,  with  all  eyes  bent  on  the 
drop-scene,  it  was  perhaps  as  curious  a sight  as 
fancy  could  conceive  or  pencil  depict.  The 
upper  tier  of  boxes  was  filled  with  boys  from  a 
neighbouring  orphanage.  They  looked  healthy, 
and  though  a little  impatient  of  the  delay,  they 
were,  on  the  whole,  very  quiet.  On  the  next 
tier  below  them  were  the  girls  of  an  industrial 
school,  looking  bright  and  cheerful  and  happy. 
Farther  down  were  the  inmates  of  a blind 
asylum,  the  boys  on  the  right,  the  girls  on  the 
left.  They  were  a solemn  and  touching  picture. 
Some  had  lost  the  eyes  entirely,  and  there  was 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  13 1 

upon  their  faces  that  strange,  calm,  placid  look 
which  we  always  notice  on  the  faces  of  the  blind. 
Their  faces  were  all  turned  upwards,  though 
they  knew  the  stage  was  beneath  them.  Others, 
again,  had  large  and  brilliant  eyes  ; but  the 
sight  was  destroyed,  and  they  looked  straight 
before  them  into  the  awful  darkness  which  ever 
accompanied  them.  But  all  were  gentle,  solemn, 
beautiful,  under  their  trying  misfortune.  The 
next  tier,  which  was  the  dress-circle,  was  occu- 
pied by  the  public,  journalists,  artists,  managers, 
actors.  And  in  the  pit,  near  the  orchestra,  were 
a group  of  aged  men,  belonging  to  the  institute 
of  charity  under  the  care  of  the  Little  Sisters 
of  the  Poor. 

The  theatre  was  darkened,  and  the  gas  was 
lighted.  There  was  deep  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  hum  of  the  boys.  Now,  the  manager  of 
the  theatre  proposed  that  this  should  be  a 
concert,  to  be  got  through  hastily  and  lightly. 
But  Rita  rejected  this  ; and,  knowing  the  pas- 
sion of  children  for  bright  scenery  and  rich 
dresses,  and  music,  she  insisted  that  an  opera 
should  be  put  on  the  stage  ; and  so  well  beloved 
was  she,  that  all  her  fellow-artists  eagerly  em- 
braced her  wish,  and  engaged  to  correspond 


132  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

with  her,  and  help  her.  Now,  the  simplest, 
the  most  touching,  and  the  most  popular  of 
operas  is  “ Trovatore,”  and  “ Trovatore  ” was 
just  the  one  Rita  selected. 

The  tiny  tinkle  of  a bell  causes  an  immediate 
hush : then  slowly  the  curtain  rises,  and  a 

scene  of  brilliancy  and  splendour  flashes  on  the 
astonished  senses  of  the  children.  Their  eyes 
opened  wider,  their  lips  parted  as  they  gazed 
on  the  strange  castles  and  bridges,  and  sylvan 
scenery  on  the  stage.  But  when  the  singers 
came  forth,  dressed  so  beautifully,  and  their 
voices  floated  out  in  the  richest  melodies  on 
the  air,  the  delight  of  the  children  was  boundless. 
Scene  after  scene  came  on,  and  each  change 
brought  a new  delight.  Even  the  old  men  in 
the  pit  looked  up,  leaning  on  their  sticks,  and 
the  tears  rolled  down  their  withered  cheeks,  as 
the  beautiful  harmony  stole  into  their  hearts. 
All  except  one,  and  he  remained  cold  and  still 
and  silent,  except  once,  when  Rita  flung  forth 
her  glorious  voice ; then  he  started,  but  in  a 
moment  subsided  again,  leaning  his  head  on 
his  hands.  He  was  not  old,  but  his  hair  was 
white  as  snow.  His  face  was  a deep  olive,  and 
looked  almost  black  in  the  gaslight,  under  the 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  133 

white  framing  of  his  hair ; and  it  was  seamed 
and  scarred  and  wrinkled  as  if  beaten  by  a 
thousand  storms.  He  seemed  very  sad,  speaking 
to  no  one,  nursing  his  misery  in  silence.  Either 
some  awful  calamity  had  befallen  him,  or  the 
memory  of  some  great  crime  haunted  him. 
The  scenes  changed ; the  music  went  on  with- 
out interruption.  At  last  they  came  to  that 
beautiful  melody,  “ Ai  nostri  monti,”  or,  as  it 
is  known  in  English,  “ Home  to  our  Mountains.” 
Now,  that  was  Rita’s  favourite  duet,  because 
it  was  the  very  one  that  they  used  to  sing  long 
ago  in  Naples  when  father’s  ship  was  return- 
ing from  its  long  voyages.  The  father’s  deep 
voice  would  sound  over  the  waters,  and  it 
would  be  immediately  caught  up  and  an- 
swered by  Rita  and  Agnese  on  shore.  There- 
fore, whenever  Rita  sang  it,  she  did  so  with 
the  memory  of  these  happy  days  before  her, 
and  therefore  with  a sweetness  that  was  very 
touching. 

To-day  some  strange,  dark  melancholy  pos- 
sessed her.  The  sight  of  the  orphans  and  the 
blind  deeply  affected  her ; she  felt  that  she 
was  singing  to  souls,  perhaps  more  deeply  tried 
than  her  own.  They,  too,  had  homes  once ; 


134  Rita,  the  Street-Singer 

but  the  father  or  the  mother  had  died  or  de- 
parted, and  left  these  children,  as  she  was  left, 
alone  in  the  wide,  wide  world.  Once  or  twice 
she  strove  to  sing  these  beautiful  lines,  but  her 
voice  was  choked  with  emotion.  At  last,  by  a 
powerful  effort,  she  controlled  herself,  and  the 
liquid  notes  streamed  forth,  until  the  air  thrilled 
and  palpitated  with  them. 

But  before  her  fellow-artist,  who  sang  with 
her,  could  utter  a single  word,  a deep,  beauti- 
ful voice  came  up  from  the  pit ; and,  raising 
his  head,  the  man  with  the  olive  face  and  the 
white  hair  sang  forth  the  rich  melody  without 
mistake  or  interruption.  The  audience  were 
struck  dumb,  as  Rita’s  voice  and  the  voice  of 
the  old  man  sounded  in  singular  harmony 
through  the  theatre.  All  listened  spellbound. 
The  members  of  the  company  who  were  not 
engaged  on  the  stage,  crept  to  the  side-scenes 
and  peered  forth  ; artists  took  out  their  pencils 
and  began  to  sketch  the  touching  scene,  until 
it  closed.  There  was  a pause ; Rita  stood  like 
a beautiful  speechless  statue,  her  eyes  wide 
open,  her  lips  parted,  as  if  a dream  of  her  child- 
hood had  come  upon  her.  Then,  suddenly 
rising,  the  white-haired  singer  flung  out  his  two 


Rita  ! ” To  face  page  134. 


Rita,  the  Street-Singer  135 

arms  to  the  stage,  and  shouted  the  simple  word, 
“ Rita ! ” 

And  Rita,  the  hope  of  whose  life  was  accom- 
plished, stepped  quickly  from  the  stage,  and  in 
a moment  was  in  the  arms  of  her  father. 


REMANDED1 


I tell  the  tale  as  ’twas  told  to  me.  And  it 
was  told  by  a venerable  old  man,  almost  blind, 
as  he  stood  by  the  battlements  of  Mallow  Bridge 
one  sunny  day,  and  I looked  from  his  intelligent 
face  into  the  clear,  swift  waters,  or  watched 
the  long  plumes  from  a passing  engine  fading 
into  the  clear  sky. 

It  was  not  on  this  bridge  it  happened,  but 
on  this  bridge’s  predecessor — a long  wooden 
structure  that  was  swept  away  in  the  great 
flood  of  ’41,  when  the  big  elm  was  blown  down, 
the  sister  of  that  splendid  tree  that  now  throws 
its  rugged  branches  far  and  wide  across  the 
road  and  seems  to  be  looking  for  its  souls  of 
roots  far  down  beneath  the  loam  of  the  meadow. 
It  was  the  time  of  the  yeomen. 

1 This  story,  founded  on  fact  (the  hero-priest  is  buried  in  Done- 
raile),  was  appropriately  printed  in  Australia  at  the  time  of  certain 
sensational  accusations  publicly  brought  against  a priest  by  an 
unhappy  woman. 

136 


Remanded 


I37 

Bitter  and  black  are  the  memories  which 
that  word  calls  up  to  the  Irish  mind.  And  the 
yeomen  of  this  particular  little  town  by  the 
Blackwater  were  a particularly  detestable  speci- 
men of  their  class.  They  hated  the  people, 
they  hated,  above  all,  the  people’s  priest.  It 
is  not  kind  to  recall  it  in  these  peaceful  days, 
but  history  is  history.  And  they  had  a par- 
ticular, undiluted,  undisguised  hatred  for  one 
priest,  who  was  correspondingly  beloved  by  the 
people,  and  his  name  was  Rev.  Thomas  Duan. 
Why  he  was  so  detested  by  the  yeomen  history 
does  not  tell,  but  they  say  he  had  a sharp 
tongue,  a fearless  eye,  was  cool,  firm,  daunt- 
less, and  when  he  smote  he  struck  straight  from 
the  shoulder,  and  the  man  that  was  smitten 
remembered  it.  And  he  flung  the  shelter  of  a 
protection  that  was  Providence  in  miniature 
over  his  shivering  flock,  and  woe  to  the  man 
that  touched  with  a wet  finger  the  little  lambs 
of  his  fold ! The  wolves  might  come  prowling 
around  and  show  their  teeth  and  snarl,  but 
they  feared  this  strong  shepherd  with  the  keen 
grey  eye,  and  slunk  from  him  with  the  flame 
of  hate  and  the  might  of  vengeance  in  their 
hearts. 


Remanded 


138 

But  fate  played  into  their  hands.  Was  it 
fate  or  that  higher  Power  that  rules  our  fate  ? 
No  matter.  Suborned  and  perjured,  one  lost 
soul  swore  informations  against  him,  and  eight 
gentlemen  yeomen  passed  here  under  the  arch- 
ing elm  and  across  these  waters  to  his  home 
at  Sandfield  to  arrest  him.  It  was  cheerful 
work,  yet  somehow  their  hearts  misgave  them. 
They  had  not  come  into  close  quarters  yet  with 
this  giant.  They  had  never  yet  touched  the 
supernatural.  And  they  knew  and  believed 
and  felt  that  a halo  of  the  supernatural  floated 
like  a spiritual  essence  around  this  frieze-coated 
priest.  Could  they  break  through  that,  they 
would  arrest  him  and  hang  him  like  a dog.  As 
the  savages  on  Tahiti,  the  moment  they  lost 
faith  in  the  godhood  of  Captain  Cook,  fell  on 
him  and  tore  him  to  pieces,  so  our  brave  yeomen, 
who  thought  as  lightly  of  a hanging  as  of  a 
ball  or  a spin  with  the  hounds,  would  gladly 
touch  and  maul  and  quarter  this  rebel,  but 
— here  again  this  supernatural  burst  upon 
them. 

“ We  want  your  master,  the  priest  Duan  ! ” 

“ The  priest  has  just  left  and  is  now  crossing 
yonder  bridge.” 


Remanded 


139 

And  the  old  housekeeper  stretched  her  skinny 
hand  towards  it. 

“ It’s  a lie.  We’ve  just  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  no  one  passed  us.” 

“ It’s  the  truth.  I saw  the  priest  turn  to 
the  left  and  pass  to  the  town.” 

“ The  woman  speaks  the  truth,”  said  Bam- 
bridge.  “ The  priest  passed  us,  and  ye  did  not 
speak.” 

“ Then  you  saw  him  ? ” 

“Yes,  I saw  him  ; he  passed  outside  us 
nearer  to  the  road.  I would  have  spoken  to 
ye,  but  I thought ” 

“ You  thought ” 

“ I thought  ye  were  afraid.” 

“ What ! afraid  of  a Popish  priest  ? ” 

But  their  lips  were  dry  and  white.  They 
went  home. 

So  did  Bambridge,  anxious  and  afraid  and 
puzzled.  He  would  solve  that  puzzle.  He 
opened  a drawer  and  took  out  a horse-pistol, 
such  as  they  swung  from  saddle  bags  when  on 
the  Croppy  track.  It  threw  a bullet  twenty 
yards,  and  the  Croppy  pike  didn’t  reach  so  far. 
That  explains  a good  deal  of  Irish  history. 

Bambridge  rang  the  bell. 


Remanded 


140 

“ Call  Nan.” 

A poor,  old,  shrivelled,  wrinkled  creature 
came  into  the  room,  looking  questioningly,  pity- 
ingly out  of  rheumy  eyes  at  her  master.  He 
rarely  saw  his  old  nurse,  but  he  loved  her. 
Times  were  changing.  He  had  often  been  asked 
to  send  away  that  old  witch,  but  he  would  not. 

“ Sit  down  and  answer  me  truly,  as  you 
value  your  life.  You  see  that  pistol  ? I 
wouldn’t  harm  a hair  in  your  old  grey  head, 
Nan,”  he  said,  softening,  and  rubbing  down  the 
poor  white  wisps  that  lay  beneath  her  cap. 
“ But  this  is  life  or  death  to  me.”  He  moistened 
his  dry  lips  before  he  spoke. 

“ What  happened  when  I was  bom  ? ” 

She  looked  up  frightened. 

“ What  happened  when  I was  born  ? ” 

She  took  up  her  apron  and  folded  it  with 
clammy  hands. 

“ Once  more.  What  happened  when  I was 
born  ? ” 

“ God  forgive  me,”  whimpered  the  old  woman, 
“ but  I baptized  you  a Catholic  ! ” 

“ Did  my  mother  know  it  ? ” 

“ No ; I did  it  in  my  own  room.  You  were 
awake  and  convulsed,  and  I said  I’d  save  your 


Remanded 


141 

soul.  I brought  you  back  and  your  mother 
kissed  you,  as  if  she  knew  something.  Of  course 
the  minister  christened  you  after,  but  I didn’t 
care.  He  couldn’t  do  you  any  harm.” 

The  grim  man  smiled. 

“ That’ll  do,  Nan,”  he  said. 

The  next  day  the  Priest  strolled  over  to  the 
nearest  Magistrate  and  asked,  Was  he  required  ? 
Yes.  He  came  to  be  arrested.  They  wouldn’t 
offer  such  an  indignity  to  a minister  of  religion  ; 
but,  you  know,  informations  have  been  sworn, 
and  the  case  must  go  on.  They  would  take 
his  own  recognisances,  on  a single  summons,  to 
appear  at  Petty  Sessions  Court  on  Tuesday.  So 
far  all  was  smooth. 

Then  human  passion  blazed  up,  as  the  smoul- 
dering furnace  fires  leap  into  swords  of  flame  at 
the  breath  of  the  south  wind.  Fear,  the  servile 
fear  of  the  poor,  whipped  Celt,  leaped  from 
white  ashes  into  white  flame ; and  the  record- 
ing angel,  if  he  heeded  such  things,  had  a well- 
filled  notebook  during  these  days. 

Tuesday  came,  and  a motley  procession  moved 
up  the  hill  with  the  gruesome  title  of  Gallows 
Hill,  on  the  brow  of  which  the  Courthouse  stood. 
They  were  sad  at  heart.  Their  priest,  their 


14  2 Remanded 

hero,  was  cowed.  He  had  said  last  Mass  on 
Sunday,  and  not  a word  came  from  lips  that 
were  always  feathered  with  the  fire  of  zeal  or 
holy  anger.  They  had  crowded  up  to  the  altar 
rails,  men  and  women — and  children  peeped 
between  their  father’s  legs  to  see  the  great 
gladiator,  who  was  to  laugh  and  discomfit  his 
foes  one  of  these  days.  Now  for  an  avalanche 
of  thunderous  denunciation — a stern,  awful  de- 
fiance of  the  foe — an  appeal  to  the  down-bending 
heavens  to  justify  him  and  mark,  by  some 
awful  vengeance,  its  condemnation  of  his  and 
their  and  God’s  own  enemies ! They  swung 
from  the  iron  rails,  they  panted  with  excitement 
— the  holy  place  alone  prevented  them  from 
uttering  their  faith  and  their  everlasting  trust 
in  his  holiness  and  purity.  Oh ! but  for  one 
word  from  his  lips.  No  ! 

“ In  the  law  of  Moses  it  is  ordered  that  such 
a one  should  be  stoned.  What,  therefore, 
sayest  thou  ? But  Jesus,  bending  down,  wrote 
with  His  finger  on  the  earth.” 

And  then  he  asked,  “ What  did  He  write  ? 
We  shall  see.” 

The  people  wondered  and  were  sad.  And  so, 
on  this  fatal  morning,  they  climbed  the  grue- 


Remanded 


H3 

some  hill  with  sad  hearts  and  sad  forebodings 
as  to  what  the  day  would  bring. 


II 

Clayton  of  Annabella  was  Chairman  of  the 
Court.  Two  Magistrates  sat  with  him,  one  on 
either  hand.  They  looked  disquieted,  and 
seemed  glad  to  study  the  ceiling  rather  than 
the  sullen  faces  that  gloomed  under  shaggy 
eyebrows  and  unkempt  hair.  The  Chairman 
was  defiant  with  the  defiance  of  levity.  He 
smiled  at  the  surging  mob  that  poured  into  the 
Courthouse  and  filled  every  available  space,  bit 
his  pen,  took  notes  or  sketches,  looked  every- 
where, except  at  one  face ; that  alone  was  calm 
and  unmoved  in  the  little  drama. 

There  was  some  delay  and  then  the  Court 
opened.  A few  uninteresting  cases  of  drunken- 
ness and  petty  squabbles  were  heard.  Then  the 
Chairman  stooped  over  his  desk  and  whispered 
to  the  Clerk.  The  latter  looked  anxiously 
around,  peering  into  every  face.  He  was  dis- 
appointed. With  a smothered  curse,  Clayton 
dropped  back  into  his  armchair  and  whispered 


144  Remanded 

to  his  brother  benchers.  There  was  an  awkward 
pause  and  something  like  a titter  passed  around 
the  Court.  These  quick-witted  people  were  not 
long  in  divining  the  cause  of  the  embarrassment 
of  the  Bench. 

After  some  communing,  the  case  was  called 
— “ The  King  v.  Thomas  Duan.”  The  indict- 
ment was  read,  the  witness  called.  “ Abina 
Walsh  ! ” rang  through  the  corridors,  was  taken 
up  at  the  doors,  passed  down  the  street,  until 
its  echoes  were  lost  over  the  demesne  wall  and 
the  rabbits  pricked  their  ears,  rubbed  their 
whiskers  and  listened.  There  was  no  reply. 
The  titter  deepened  into  a broad  smile,  that 
spread  itself  over  sallow,  grimy  faces ; and 
the  smile  deepened  into  a laugh,  until  a roar 
of  merriment  rang  through  the  court,  and  the 
Magistrates  grew  red  and  furious  and  the  Clerk 
roared  “ Silence.”  One  face  alone  was  un- 
moved. Once  more  the  name  was  called  ; the 
echoes  died  away,  the  chuckle  of  the  people  was 
checked. 

“ The  Court  stands  adjourned.” 

“ You  mean  the  case  is  dismissed  ? ” 

“ Certainly  not.  The  accused  is  remanded  to 
this  day  week.  There  is  some  foul  play  here.” 


Remanded 


H5 

Then  the  Priest  spoke  and  the  people  hung 
on  his  lips. 

“ There  is  foul  play,”  he  said,  slowly  and 
solemnly,  “ foul  play  for  which  the  doers  will 
answer  before  a higher  Tribunal  than  this.  You 
say  I am  remanded  ? ” 

“ Yes — the  case  will  come  up  on  this  day 
week.  We  shall  again  accept  your  own  recog- 
nisances to  appear  before  me  on  that  day.” 

“ To  appear  before  you  ? ” echoed  the  Priest. 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  Chairman.  “ Here,  I’ll 
put  you  on  oath.  Come  hither ! ” He  held 
out  a tiny  book,  corded  round. 

The  Priest  approached  and  solemnly  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  book.  Their  fingers  touched. 

“ I swear ” 

“ I swear ” 

“To  deliver  myself  up  to  you  for  trial  ” 

“ To  deliver  myself  up  to  you  for  trial  ” 

“ On  next  Tuesday ” 

“ On  next  Tuesday ” 

“ March  29 ” 

“ March  29 ” 

“ So  help  me  God  ! ” 

“ So  help  me  God  ! ” 

The  people  poured  out  of  the  Courthouse  and 

K 


Remanded 


146 

down  the  hill,  murmuring,  laughing,  questioning, 
doubting,  fearing,  denying. 

“ Why  the  divil  didn’t  he  cling  them  to  their 
sates  ? ” 

“ He’s  too  aisy  altogether  with  them  ! ” 

“ Wait,  an’  you’ll  see.  Didn’t  the  ould 
fellow  look  black,  though  ? I wonder  where 
is  she  ? ” 

“ The  divil  flew  away  with  her.  Sure  he  was 
lonesome  without  her  ! ” 

“ May  the  Lord  spare  us  till  next  Tuesday, 
however ! Won’t  there  be  fun  ? He’s  goin’  to 
do  somethin’.” 

“ He  looks  too  quiet  to  be  wholesome.  I’d 
give  a whole  week’s  wages  to  see  Clayton’s  black 
mug  again,  when  he  called  on  Abby.  Sweet 
bad  luck  to  her  ! ” 

“ They  say  the  whole  country  will  be  riz  before 
Tuesday.” 

“No,  no,  no  ! we’d  rather  lave  it  to  himself. 
He’s  enough  for  them.” 

But  pikeheads  were  sharpened  in  many  a 
forge ; and  down  where  the  willows  drew  their 
fingers  through  the  swift  waters  there  was  a 
massing  of  men  and  a lifting  of  hands  to 
heaven. 


Remanded 


H7 


hi 

That  night  a wild  beast  howled  until  the  early 
watches  around  the  Priest’s  house.  It  was  the 
wail  of  a hungry  wolf ; yea,  rather,  the  moan 
of  some  beast  in  pain.  At  intervals  of  five  or 
six  minutes  it  beat  around  the  house,  coming 
from  the  thickets  of  speckled  laurel  and  going 
round  and  round  the  dwelling,  then  wailing  into 
silence  again. 

Once  or  twice  the  Priest,  as  he  sat  in  the 
wicker  chair  reading  his  Breviary,  thought  he 
heard  the  tap  of  fingers  at  his  window,  but  he 
said  it  was  the  trailers  of  the  jasmine  or  clematis 
that  were  lifted  by  the  night  wind.  But  when 
eleven  o’clock  chimed,  he  rose  and  passed  into 
the  moonlight  and  peered  around.  The  glisten- 
ing laurel  leaves  looked  meekly  at  the  moon, 
and  the  lattice  work  of  the  nude  tree  threw  its 
netted  pattern  on  the  gravel ; but  there  was  no 
one  there.  Three  times  he  walked  around  the 
house,  studying  every  nook  and  cranny  to  find 
the  weird,  uncanny  voice.  Then  he  paused 
and  listened  in  the  moonlight  to  the  murmur 
of  the  river  as  it  fretted  over  the  ford  beneath 


Remanded 


148 

the  bridge.  He  did  not  see  two  gleaming  eyes 
that  shone  in  the  thick  darkness  of  a shrubbery 
close  by — eyes  that  gleamed  with  despair  and 
one  little  ray  of  hope,  that  just  now  was  fading 
away.  Where  was  her  guardian  angel  that 
moment  ? Where  the  last  mercy,  that  would 
drag  her,  despite  herself,  from  that  retreat,  and 
fling  her  on  her  knees  for  pardon  from  the  man 
she  had  so  foully  wronged  ? 

Alas ! these  things  are  beyond  our  ken. 
During  ten  long  minutes  of  grace  he  stood  there, 
unconscious  of  the  presence  near  him,  listening, 
half  in  a dream,  to  the  music  that  came  from 
the  river  and  the  night  silences.  Then  he  passed 
into  the  house,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door. 
It  was  to  her,  poor  soul ! the  rolling  to  of  heaven’s 
gates — the  crash  and  clangour  of  bolts  and  locks 
that  shut  her  out  of  Paradise  for  ever. 

In  the  grey  dawn  of  the  morning,  the  water 
bailiff,  who  was  coming  home  from  his  night- 
rounds  on  the  river,  saw  something  black,  where 
the  river  lipped  the  sands,  just  below  the  deep 
hole  called  the  Bulwarks.  He  went  towards  it 
and  turned  it  over  with  his  foot.  Before  nine 
o’clock  it  was  known  to  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  town  that  Abbey  Walsh,  the  per- 


Remanded 


149 

jured  and  suborned  girl,  had  been  drowned. 
Crowds  came  to  look  at  the  black  heap  lying 
on  the  grey  sands,  but  no  one  touched  it ; and 
there  it  lay,  the  March  sunshine  playing  on 
it,  and  making  its  own  lustre  among  the  black, 
wet  garments,  while  the  river  came  up  like  a 
dog  which,  having  killed  its  prey,  returns  to 
worry  the  dead  bird  or  beast,  and  lifted  one 
cold  hand,  and  washed  around  the  naked  feet, 
and  played  with  the  black  fringe  that  fell  from 
the  shawl  of  the  dead  girl.  It  was  only  when 
the  dusk  was  falling  that  the  Priest  heard  of 
this  frightful  thing,  and  he  hurried  down  to  the 
big  meadow,  and  very  soon  stood  amongst  a 
curious  but  most  irreverent  throng. 

“We  was  only  waiting  for  your  Reverence, 
to  see  her,  till  we  threw  her  back  into  the  river,” 
said  big  Dave,  the  smith,  black,  brawny,  and 
fiercely  and  aggressively  honest. 

“ I’m  surprised  at  you,  Dave,”  said  the  Priest 
gently.  “ You  weren’t  at  Mass  on  Sunday.” 
Dave  looked  confused.  And  the  Priest,  moving 
down  along  the  sand,  stood  over  the  dead. 

“ Such  of  you,”  he  said,  with  just  a suspicion 
of  contempt  in  his  voice,  “ as  were  at  Mass  on 
Sunday,  may  remember  the  Gospel  I read  and 


Remanded 


IS° 

the  remark  I made.  There  may  be  outcasts 
from  the  bosom  of  God — sheep  whom  the  Good 
Shepherd  had  not  found.  But  it  would  be  the 
wildest  presumption  in  you  or  me  to  judge  those 
whom,  perhaps,  God  Himself  may  judge  only 
with  a heart  of  compassion.  I told  you,  I think, 
that  the  Master  stooped  down  and  wrote  on 
the  sands.  So  do  I.” 

He  stooped,  and  with  his  fingers  drew  letters 
on  the  sand,  but  the  tradition  is  that  each 
letter  disappeared  as  he  finished  it,  and  to  this 
day  it  is  a matter  of  conjecture  what  the  letters 
signified,  and  many  a fierce  debate  has  taken 
place  in  forge  and  tavern  as  to  what  the  Priest 
wrote  on  the  strand  near  the  Bulwarks. 

“ Now  I said  to  you,”  continued  the  Priest, 
raising  himself,  as  he  stood  head  and  shoulders 
over  the  tallest  man  present,  “ that  what  the 
Master  wrote  we  shall  see.  We  have  seen 
something,”  he  said,  pointing  to  the  dead  figure  ;■ 
“ whether  it  is  His  justice  or  His  mercy  we  do 
not  know.  But  we  shall  see  more.  Go,  Dave, 
and  fetch  a coffin.”  He  walked  up  and  down 
the  sands,  reading  his  Breviary,  till  the  men 
returned.  “ Now  raise  this  poor  girl,  and  re- 
member the  Magdalen  and  Christ.” 


Remanded  1 5 1 

But  not  a man  stood  forward.  Their  horror  and 
their  dread  were  beyond  their  compassion.  They 
stared  at  this  man,  who  was  giving  them  such 
unpleasant  shocks,  and  they  sullenly  shook  their 
heads.  “Touch  her!  God  forbid.  Our  children  and 
our  children’s  children  would  never  forgive  us.” 
Then  the  Priest  took  off  his  great  frieze  coat 
and  went  over  and  knelt  down  by  the  prostrate 
figure. 

“ Oh,  don’t.  Oh,  don’t ! your  Reverence  ! ” 
wailed  the  women.  Then  they  turned  angrily 
on  the  men.  “ You  big,  lazy  hounds,  don’t  you 
see  what  his  Reverence  is  doing  ? ” 

Two  or  three  big,  hulking  fellows  stepped 
forward.  But  the  Priest  waved  them  back, 
and  gently  putting  his  strong  arms  around  the 
dead  girl  he  raised  her  up  and  moved  towards 
the  rude  coffin.  As  he  did  so  her  head  fell 
back,  and  one  arm  dropping  down,  a paper 
fell  from  her  hand,  and  five  bright,  wet  guineas 
rolled  upon  the  sand.  One  little,  ragged  urchin 
leaped  forward  to  seize  the  prize,  but  big  Dave 
caught  him  by  the  collar  and  swung  him  six 
feet  away  among  the  ferns,  saying — 

“ You  little  cur.  You’d  take  her  blood  money, 
would  you  ? ” So  there  the  guineas  lay,  bright  and 


Remanded 


152 

round,  under  the  steely  sky,  but  though  many  an  eye 
hungered  after  them,  no  hand  would  touch  them. 

Meanwhile  the  Priest  had  lifted  up  the  drooping 
head,  from  which  the  long  black  hair  was  weep- 
ing, and,  placing  his  hand  under  the  neck,  drew 
the  face  upwards.  And  men  will  swear  to  this 
day  that  the  eyes  of  the  dead  opened  on  his 
face,  and  that  the  white  lips  moved  to  thank 
him.  But  he,  the  “ Kalos  Poimen,”  the  beauti- 
ful shepherd,  whose  prototype  was  so  familiar 
to  the  haunted  Christians  of  the  Catacombs,  saw 
nothing,  but  reverently  placed  the  poor  dripping 
figure  in  the  coffin,  reverently  straightened  the 
head  and  covered  the  naked  feet,  and  then 
placed  and  fastened  down  the  lid. 

“ Perhaps,”  he  said,  with  the  slightest  touch 
of  sarcasm,  “ you  expect  me  to  take  the  coffin 
to  the  grave  ? ” But  those  fierce  people  were 
beginning  to  be  awed  by  this  wonderful  man — 
more  awed  than  ever  they  were  by  his  thunders 
from  the  Altar,  or  the  fierce  invectives  that  he 
exulted  to  pour  forth  against  the  enemies  of  his 
Church  and  people.  With  shamed  faces,  four 
men  stepped  forward  and  slung  the  coffin  on 
their  shoulders.  The  Priest  moved  to  the  front, 
and  a wondering  crowd  followed. 


Remanded 


*53 

When  they  emerged  into  the  main  thorough- 
fare there  was  again  a pretence  at  rebellion. 

“ To  the  Banfield,  I suppose,  your  Rever- 
ence ? ” said  the  coffin-bearers.  The  Banfield 
was  .the  local  Aceldama,  the  place  for  the 
nameless  and  outcast  dead. 

“ Certainly  not,”  he  replied,  without  look- 
ing back  ; “ down  to  the  churchyard.” 

To  the  churchyard,  where  their  own  dead  re- 
posed— their  decent  fathers  and  mothers  and 
children ! To  place  this  perjured  suicide  among 
the  good  Catholic  dead  ! What  next  ? 

With  head  bent  and  hands  firmly  clasped 
behind  his  back,  the  Priest  moved  on.  Great 
pity  filled  his  heart.  The  thought  of  that 
woman’s  wail  last  night,  his  own  possible  neglect 
in  not  seeking  her  and  saving  her ; the  splendid 
chance  of  salvation  which  was  held  out  to  her, 
and  which  was  snapped,  perhaps,  by  his  stupi- 
dity or  negligence ; the  remembrance  of  that 
upturned  face,  so  beautiful,  so  pitiful,  even  the 
little  human  feeling  of  patronage  and  protection 
(almost  the  only  human  feeling  a Priest  is  per- 
mitted to  entertain),  as  the  head  of  the  dead 
girl  rested  against  his  breast, — all  these  things 
filled  him  with  such  pity  and  divine  love  that 


Remanded 


*54 

he  almost  forgot  his  own  wrongs.  But,  then, 
Irish  priests  are  fatalists.  They  are  so  habitu- 
ated to  the  drama  of  relentless  iniquity  that 
is  always  going  on  around  them — the  striking 
of  the  feeble  with  the  mailed  hand,  the  chaining 
of  the  captive  to  the  victor’s  car,  the  sleek, 
hypocritical  but  unbending  despotism,  under 
which  the  helpless  victims  hopelessly  writhe ; 
the  utter  despair  of  all,  as  destiny  for  ever 
mockingly  destroys  them,  — all  these  things 
make  the  Irish  priest  patient  under  circum- 
stances that  ordinarily  drive  men  to  madness. 
He  has  to  lean  on  some  dim  philosophy  that 
the  wrong  side  of  the  tapestry,  with  blurred 
figures  and  ugly  colours,  is  turned  towards  him  ; 
and  that  it  is  only  when  he  goes  above  and  looks 
down  he  will  see  how  fair  were  the  patterns  of 
the  Almighty,  how  brilliant  His  colours,  how 
faultless  His  designs. 

Some  such  thoughts  ran  through  the  Priest’s 
mind  as  he  passed  down  the  thronged  street, 
while  the  crowds  looked  at  him  and  wondered. 
Then  one  wave  of  awful  indignation  against 
his  pursuers  swept  these  tender  thoughts  away. 
But  he  tried  to  suppress  it.  And  it  was  then, 
while  yet  quivering  under  its  excitement,  he 


Remanded 


155 

approached  the  gate  that  led  to  the  graveyard, 
that  some  one  came  to  him  and  said — 

“ They  have  locked  the  gate.” 

He  looked  up.  The  gate  that  opened  into 
the  avenue  that  led  down  to  the  Protestant 
church,  around  which  were  located  the  resting- 
places  of  the  parishioners  for  six  hundred  years, 
since  the  old  Abbey  was  founded,  was  locked 
and  chained.  The  sight  of  this  new  assertion 
of  supremacy  goaded  him  to  anger. 

“ They  drove  her  to  death,”  he  said,  “ and 
they  refuse  her  a grave  ! ” 

And  running  down  the  little  steep,  he  struck 
the  iron  gate  with  his  shoulder,  flinging  all  his 
strength  into  the  assault.  The  rotten  chain 
parted,  the  lock  was  smashed  in  pieces,  and 
with  a suppressed  cheer  of  triumph  the  people 
swept  into  the  broad  avenue.  They  chose  a 
quiet,  green  spot  for  her  burial,  down  near  the 
wall  that  cuts  off  the  big  meadow.  There  the 
Priest’s  mind  went  back  to  the  little  child  that 
had  learned  “ Hail  Marys  ” at  his  knee ; to 
the  young  girl  that  had  received  her  first  Com- 
munion from  his  hands,  to  the  bright  young 
woman  who  was  the  idol  of  her  father,  to  the 
wailing  soul  around  his  house  last  night,  to  the 


Remanded 


156 

poor  suicide  by  the  river’s  brink — to  this  poor 
coffin,  this  lonely  grave  ; and  he  said  as  he 
turned  to  his  little  cottage — 

“ Thy  ways  are  upon  the  seas,  and  Thy  path- 
way on  the  waters,  and  Thy  footsteps  are  not 
known.” 


IV 

The  quick  impulsiveness  of  the  Celtic  nature 
hates  the  silence  of  mystery  and  dreads  it.  It 
is  eager  to  get  behind  the  veil,  and  it  will  some- 
times drag  it  down  to  discover  its  secrets,  but 
always  with  a dread  that  the  discovery  may 
lead  to  something  uncanny  and  unwholesome. 

The  impatience  of  the  people,  therefore,  in 
this  little  drama,  to  hear  what  their  Priest  was 
going  to  do,  had  reached  its  culminating  point 
on  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  discovery  of 
the  dead  body  by  the  river ; and  at  last  Mass 
on  that  day  the  congregation  was  a dense,  close 
mass  of  humanity  that  pressed  against  the 
iron  rails  of  the  sanctuary,  was  packed  against 
the  walls  and  pillars,  and  overflowed  beyond  the 
precincts  of  the  spacious  church  far  out  to  the 
gate  that  opened  on  the  street.  Crowds  had 


Remanded 


r57 

come  in  from  the  country  districts,  strong, 
prosperous  farmers  on  their  horses  ; labourers 
with  rough,  red  breasts  opened  freely  to  the 
March  winds,  with  just  a pretence  of  protec- 
tion in  a rough,  homespun  jacket  of  flannel, 
tied  in  a knot  at  the  waist ; tradesmen  with 
some  distinguishing  mark  of  their  occupation  ; 
a crowd  of  women  and  girls  drawn  thither  by 
curiosity  and  fear.  And  one  hope  was  in  all 
hearts,  that  this  day  the  avenging  hand  of  the 
Almighty  would  be  explained  and  a clear  fore- 
cast of  future  impending  judgments  be  given. 

There  was  something  very  like  a smile  around 
the  firm,  curving  lips  of  the  Priest  when  he 
turned  towards  his  people  at  the  Post-Com- 
munion of  the  Mass.  He  knew  what  was  ex- 
pected, and  he  knew  they  were  going  to  be 
disappointed.  He  read  a long  list  of  names 
of  deceased  persons  to  be  prayed  for,  and  he 
closed  the  list  with  the  name  of  Abina  Walsh, 
who  died  during  the  week.  Usually  a deep 
murmur  of  prayer  follows  such  announcements 
in  the  Irish  churches.  This  day  there  was  a 
sullen  silence.  The  Priest  looked  them  over 
calmly  for  a moment,  rolling  between  his  fingers 
the  list  of  names.  Then  he  said — 


Remanded 


!58 

“ How  often  have  I told  you,  in  the  words 
of  our  Divine  Master : You  believe  in  God, 
believe  in  me.  You  might  have  learned  this 
past  week  that  God’s  arm  is  not  foreshortened, 
nor  His  eye  made  blind  to  the  iniquity  that 
pursues  us.  Yet  you  forget.  Your  solicitude 
for  me  blinds  your  faith  in  God.  Fear  not, 
for  I have  no  fear.  I do  not  miscalculate  the 
malice,  nor  the  power  underlying  that  malice 
that  seeks  my  life — or,  what  is  dearer  than  life, 
my  honour.  But  so  far  as  this  little  drama 
has  proceeded  the  machinations  of  my  enemies 
have  been  checked,  and  God,  and  I,  His  un- 
worthy servant,  have  been  justified.  What  the 
future  will  bring  forth  I know  not ; but  I know 
He  in  whom  I trust  will  deliver  me.  from  the 
toils  of  the  hunters  and  the  bitter  word.  It  is 
not  for  myself,  it  is  for  you  I am  solicitous. 
It  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  several  young 
men  amongst  you  contemplate  violence  next 
Tuesday,  should  an  adverse  decision  be  given 
against  me  on  evidence  which  may  again  be 
suborned.  I beg  of  you,  as  you  love  me,  I 
implore  you  to  desist  from  any  demonstration 
of  force  on  that  day.  I know  that  you  will 
only  be  playing  into  the  hands  of  your  enemies. 


Remanded 


159 

Large  forces  will  be  drafted  into  town  next 
Tuesday.  I don’t  want  to  see  you  falling  under 
the  sabres  of  troopers  or  the  musket-butts  of 
yeomen.  Believe  me  all  will  be  right.  God 
will  justify  me,  and  before  the  red  sun  sets 
you  will  know  who  hath  the  power — the  unseen 
Judge  of  the  living  and  the  dead,  or  the  hire- 
lings of  perjurers  and  despots.” 

A deep  breath  was  drawn  when  he  had  con- 
cluded. The  women  were  satisfied — their  faith 
always  leaps  highest.  The  men  were  not. 
They  hated  this  mystery.  They  hoped  he  would 
appeal  to  their  manhood  to  defend  him.  They 
grudged  the  defence  to  God.  And  when  the 
Priest,  about  to  leave  the  altar,  turned  once 
more  to  exact  a promise  that  there  should  be 
no  violence,  the  young  men  sidled  out  of  the 
church,  and  to  the  request  that  all  hands  should 
be  raised  in  promise,  only  a few  trembling  old 
men  raised  their  half-palsied  hands  and  in- 
stantly lowered  them. 

And  so  there  was  no  surprise  on  the  eventful 
day  when,  every  shop  shuttered,  every  door  closed, 
the  streets  were  paraded  by  bodies  of  young  men, 
who  walked  with  a kind  of  military  precision,  but 
apparently  had  no  weapons  of  offence. 


i6o 


Remanded 


Those  who  were  in  the  secret  understood 
that  in  yards  and  recesses  arms  were  piled. 
And  when  a phalanx  of  labourers  entered  the 
town  from  the  north  and  took  up  their  places 
in  front  of  the  Courthouse,  leaning,  as  is  their 
wont,  on  their  spades,  every  one  knew  that 
these  light  spade  handles  were  never  intended 
to  battle  with  the  brown  earth,  and  that  some- 
where away  in  these  voluminous  flannel  vests 
the  Croppy-pike  with  its  sharp  lance,  the  hook 
to  drag  down  the  hussar,  and  the  sharp  axe  to 
cut  the  bridle  were  hidden.  And  it  may  be 
said  that  no  fear,  but  the  joy  of  battle,  filled 
these  honest  hearts  when,  just  at  ten  o’clock,  a 
troop  of  dragoons,  with  drawn  sabres,  moved 
slowly  down  the  main  street  and  drew  up  in 
two  lines  close  to  the  demesne  wall  and  oppo- 
site the  Courthouse.  The  soldiers  were  good- 
humoured  and  laughed  and  chatted  gaily. 
Their  officers  looked  grave.  So  did  the  mounted 
yeomen  that  acted  as  a bodyguard  to  the 
magistrates,  who,  under  the  sullen  frowns  and 
muttered  curses  of  the  people,  took  their  way  up 
the  hill  to  the  trial  that  was  to  be  eventful  for 
them.  But  there  were  no  shouts  of  execration, 
no  hysterical  demonstrations  of  hate. 


Remanded 


161 


Neither  was  a single  shout  raised  when  the 
Priest  moved  slowly  through  the  thick  masses 
of  the  people.  But  every  hat  was  raised,  and 
the  women  murmured,  “ God  bring  him  safe  from 
his  enemies  ! ” For  it  was  generally  supposed 
that  the  indictment  would  not  fail,  even  though 
the  principal  witness  was  dead — there  was  a 
deep  suspicion  that  some  clever  machination 
would  yet  involve  their  beloved  Priest  with 
the  law ; and  “ you  know,  Clayton  is  the  divil 
painted,  and  he  can  do  what  he  likes  with  the 
rest.”  It  was  some  surprise,  therefore,  to  find 
that  Clayton  had  not  yet  appeared.  Eleven 
o’clock  struck.  The  crowds  that  crammed  the 
Courthouse  began  to  grow  curious.  It  was  the 
scene  of  last  Tuesday  repeated — anxious  Magis- 
trates, a bewildered  clerk,  a jeering,  sullen  crowd, 
one  calm  figure — but  the  central  seat  on  the 
Bench  was  empty. 

At  last  the  case  was  called  : “ The  King  v. 
Rev.  Thomas  Duan.”  The  prosecutor  arose, 
mumbled  something  about  withdrawing  the  case, 
he  understood  witness — the  chief  witness — could 
not  appear,  &c.  The  Magistrates  declared  the 
case  dismissed.  The  crowd,  taken  by  surprise, 

looked  stupidly  at  the  Bench  and  at  one  an- 

i. 


1 6 2 Remanded 

other.  Then  a shout  arose  that  made  the  old 
roof  tremble,  and  filled  the  court ; it  was  taken 
up  outside,  and  the  cavalry  drew  their  bridles 
and  backed  their  horses  and  clutched  their 
sabres,  as  the  roar  of  triumph  was  taken  up 
and  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  until  the  hoarse 
murmur  filled  the  air  and  the  people  seemed  to 
have  gone  mad  with  joy. 

In  the  Courthouse,  however,  not  one  stirred. 
The  Magistrates  on  the  bench  looked  as  if  glued 
to  their  seats ; the  people  waited  the  signal 
from  their  hero.  He  rose  slowly  and  said  in 
his  quiet,  emphatic  way  : 

“You  say  the  case  is  dismissed.  The  prisoner 
is  not  dismissed  as  yet.” 

“ Oh  yes,”  said  the  Magistrate,  “ you  may 
go-” 

“ Thank  you,”  he  said  contemptuously.  Then 
knitting  his  brows,  he  bent  them  on  the  quailing 
justices,  and  in  a voice  full  of  wrath  and  in- 
dignation he  cried  : 

“ I took  a solemn  oath  before  the  Most  High 
God  last  Tuesday  that  I would  deliver  myself 
into  Clayton’s  hands  for  trial  to-day.  We  held 
the  Book  of  the  Gospels  together,  and  my  hand 
touched  his.  I am  bound  by  that  oath  to 


Remanded  163 

deliver  myself  into  his  hands  to-day.  Where 
is  he  ? ” 

“ We  don’t  know,”  replied  the  Magistrates. 
“ He  is  not  here.” 

“ Then  I go  to  seek  him,”  said  the  Priest 
turning  to  the  door. 

The  vast  multitude  poured  out  after  him,  as, 
with  long  strides,  he  passed  down  the  hillside 
and  emerged  on  the  square.  Here  the  shouting 
was  again  taken  up,  hats  were  waved — but  all 
were  stilled  into  silence  when  they  saw  the 
grave  man  moving  rapidly  onward,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  an  awed 
and  silent  multitude  following. 

Then  the  whole  crowd  fell  into  line,  and, 
with  wondering  eyes  and  parted  lips,  followed 
the  Priest. 

V 

The  Main  Street  is  a long,  narrow  street,  curving 
in  a crescent  from  the  bridge,  and  extending  pro- 
bably about  a mile  from  the  extreme  end  where 
the  Courthouse  was  situated  to  Annabella  House, 
the  residence  of  the  Magistrate,  Mr.  Clayton. 
Silent,  but  tumultuous  in  their  actions  and 


Remanded 


164 

motions,  wondering,  curious,  afraid,  the  great 
crowd  poured  in  a rapid  stream,  swelled  here 
and  there  by  contingents  from  narrow  lanes 
and  side  streets. 

The  Priest  walked  a few  paces  in  front.  No 
one  spoke  to  him.  He  moved  along  quickly, 
as  one  questing  for  some  object  that  might  evade 
him,  his  head  erect,  and  the  ordinary  pallor 
of  his  face  heightened  by  a pale  pink  flush. 
In  less  than  ten  minutes  he  stood  at  the  iron 
gate  that  led  into  the  park,  and  the  multitude 
swept  round  him  in  curves  that  gradually 
thickened  into  one  compact  mass  of  humanity. 
It  was  a bright  March  morning.  The  black 
buds  were  just  breaking  into  tiny  beads  of  soft 
green.  A heavy  dew  lay  on  the  grass,  and  was 
smoking  under  the  sun’s  rays,  except  where  the 
shadows  of  the  elms  fell.  The  house,  a square 
mansion,  without  pretensions  to  architecture, 
looked  very  white  in  the  morning  light,  and  the 
shuttered  windows  stared,  like  the  white  eyes 
of  a blind  man,  at  the  sky. 

“No  man  passes  this  gate  but  myself,”  said 
the  Priest.  “ I go  alone  to  see  what  awaits  me.” 

A murmur  of  disappointment  trembled  through 
the  crowd,  and  some  ragged  youngsters,  to 


Remanded 


165 

console  themselves,  clambered  on  the  walls, 
from  which  they  were  instantly  dislodged.  The 
Priest  closed  the  gate  and  moved  along  the 
gravelled  walk  to  the  house.  The  blinds  were 
down  and  the  shutters  closed.  He  knocked 
gently.  No  answer.  Then  imperiously,  and  a 
footman  appeared. 

“ I want  to  see  your  master,  Mr.  Clayton.” 

“ You  cannot  see  him,”  said  the  man  angrily. 

“ I insist  upon  seeing  him,”  said  the  Priest ; 
“ I have  an  engagement  with  him.” 

“ You  cannot  see  him,”  said  the  man  nervously. 

“ Take  him  my  message,”  said  the  Priest. 
“ Say  that  Thomas  Duan,  priest  and  prisoner, 
must  see  him.” 

“ Take  your  own  message,  then ! ” cried  the 
man,  as  he  passed  into  the  kitchen. 

The  Priest  walked  upstairs,  whither  the  man 
had  pointed.  He  paused  on  the  lobby  un- 
certainly, then  pushed  open  a half-closed  door 
and  entered.  The  room  was  dark.  He  opened 
the  shutters  and  drew  the  blind.  Then  even 
his  great  nerve  gave  way.  For,  lying  on  the 
white  coverlet,  his  head  shattered  into  an  un- 
distinguishable  mass  of  bone  and  blood,  his 
brains  blackening  the  white  wall  behind  his 


i66 


Remanded 


pillow,  his  right  hand  clutching  a heavy  pistol, 
was  Clayton  ; and  there,  on  the  floor,  was  the 
mouldering,  disinterred  corpse  of  Abina  Walsh, 
the  face  just  darkening  in  incipient  decomposi- 
tion, and  the  brown  earth  clinging  to  her  bare 
feet  and  black  clothes. 

The  Priest  could  not  restrain  a cry  of  horror 
as  he  rushed  from  that  awful  chamber  of  death. 
Whatever  he  had  expected,  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  give  himself  up  formally  into  the  custody 
of  his  enemy  by  placing  his  right  hand  on 
Clayton’s  and  interlocking  his  fingers,  as  had 
happened  on  the  day  when  he  took  the  oath. 
But  all  other  feelings  vanished  at  the  dreadful 
spectacle  he  had  just  witnessed.  Full  of  horror 
and  self-humiliation  at  the  sight  of  such  awful 
retribution,  he  passed  rapidly  to  the  gate.  Then 
raising  his  sonorous  voice  to  its  fullest  pitch, 
he  said  to  the  expectant  multitude  : 

“ Go  back  to  your  homes  and  fall  upon  your 
knees  to  implore  God’s  mercy.  And  let  them 
who  have  touched  the  dead  beware ! ” Then, 
in  a lower  voice  he  said,  almost  to  himself, 
“ I know  not  which  is  more  dreadful — the  wrath 
of  God  or  the  vengeance  of  man  ! ” 

For  years  Annabella  House  lay  untenanted. 


Remanded 


167 

It  was  believed  that  no  human  power  could 
wash  away  the  dread  blood  stains  on  the  wall. 
Paint  and  lime  were  tried  in  vain.  Even  when 
the  mortar  was  scraped  away  the  red  stains 
appeared  on  the  masonry.  About  thirty  years 
ago  it  was  pulled  down,  and  the  green  grass  is 
now  growing  on  the  foundations  of  a once  famous 
mansion. 


HOW  THE  ANGEL  BECAME  HAPPY 


I 

The  angel’s  name  was  Astrael. 

He  was  not  one  of  the  great  Archangels  that 
stand  close  before  the  throne  of  God,  nor  did 
he  belong  to  any  of  the  seven  orders  of  spirits, 
but  his  place  was  far  down  in  the  lower  choirs, 
but  directly  facing  the  great  white  throne  of 
the  Lamb.  He  was  one  of  the  faithful  few 
that  smote  and  hurled  from  the  battlements 
of  heaven  the  fallen  angels,  when  St.  Michael 
raised  his  battle-cry,  “ Who  is  like  unto  God  ? ” 
and  from  that  time  he  had  many  chosen  and 
delicate  duties  appointed  him,  all  of  which  he 
discharged  most  faithfully  for  the  love  of  his 
great  King.  For  the  first  thousand  years  after 
the  fall  of  the  angels,  he  was  charged  with  the 
care  of  a great  beautiful  star  that  was  quenched 
when  the  angels  fell,  for  you  must  know  that 
every  star  in  heaven  is  called  after  its  angel ; 
and  the  stars  that  belonged  to  the  rebel  angels 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  169 

were  suddenly  extinguished  when  God  drove 
these  unfaithful  servants  from  heaven.  Then 
they  were  re-lighted.  So  every  night  our  angel 
had  to  fly  through  the  fields  of  space,  and  light 
up  this  beautiful  star,  and  hold  it  aloft  in  his 
great  right  hand,  whilst  he  himself  fronted  the 
Almighty.  Hence,  he  took  his  name  Astrael, 
that  is,  angel  of  the  star. 

But  after  a thousand  years  his  duties  were 
changed.  And  for  a thousand  more  he  was 
charged  with  the  duty  of  watching  a great 
white  lily,  that  budded  and  expanded  from 
spring  to  summer,  and  was  finally  gathered 
and  placed  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  So 
every  springtide  he  came  upon  earth,  and  drew 
up  the  tiny  green  shoot  from  the  brown  mould, 
and  every  day  made  it  stronger,  until  at  last 
the  white  petals  would  peep  out  from  the  green 
sheath.  And  then  as  it  grew  and  broadened, 
and  the  white  velvet  leaves  expanded,  he  had 
to  keep  it  very  pure  and  unstained,  and  ever 
and  anon  he  shook  his  wings  over  it,  and  a 
beautiful  perfume  fell  on  the  lily,  and  was 
wafted  over  the  garden.  At  last  it  was  tenderly 
cut,  and  placed  in  a beautiful  vase,  and  our 
angel  came  with  it  into  the  silent  chapel,  and 


170  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

bent  over  it,  and  touched  the  leaves  with  his 
lips  to  keep  them  fresh,  and  then  bent  very 
low  before  the  Tabernacle,  and  flew  back  to  his 
place  in  heaven. 

Now,  our  angel  was  not  very  happy  out  there 
amongst  the  great  lonely  stars  ; and,  though 
he  was  much  happier  amongst  his  lilies,  there 
was  always  a pain  at  his  heart — a sad,  melan- 
choly feeling  that  he  could  not  put  aside.  Be- 
cause he  saw  day  after  day  in  the  courts  of 
heaven  a strange  thing  take  place.  Several  of 
his  companions  would  return  to  their  places 
after  many  years’  absence,  and  many  would 
return  very  sad,  and  he  could  see  their  eyes 
red  from  weeping,  and  notice  that  they  always 
kept  their  wings  closed,  yet  their  hot  tears 
would  drop  on  the  bright  shining  floors.  But 
some  would  return,  their  faces  full  of  joy,  and 
now  and  again  they  would  bring  with  them 
another  beautiful  spirit,  not  an  angel,  yet  very 
like  an  angel,  and  Astrael  was  quite  jealous  to 
see  the  deep  love  and  affection  which  his  com- 
panions had  for  these  souls.  And  he  heard 
them  called  the  “ children  of  the  angels,”  and 
the  angels  called  their  guardians.  And  he  was 
hoping  and  praying  every  day  that  the  great 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  1 7 1 

King  would  call  him,  and  send  him  to  earth, 
and  give  him  such  a precious  charge ; but 
hundreds  of  years  rolled  by,  and  Astrael  was 
unnoticed. 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  Assumption  of  our 
Blessed  Lady  ; and  there  was  great  joy  in  heaven. 
They  were  all  preparing  to  celebrate  the  feast 
of  God’s  Holy  Mother  in  a worthy  manner ; 
but  Astrael  noticed  that  there  was  the  greatest 
eagerness  to  do  honour  to  the  great  Queen 
amongst  the  children  of  the  angels.  Suddenly 
a bright  thought  struck  him.  He  would  ask 
the  Blessed  Virgin  to  grant  him  the  great  desire 
of  his  heart.  He  prayed  for  the  favour.  But 
he  had  no  need  of  asking.  For  our  Blessed  Lady 
read  his  thoughts  ; and  the  morning  had  scarcely 
dawned,  when  he  heard  his  name,  “ Astrael ! 
Astrael ! ” shouted  through  the  courts  of  heaven. 
He  looked  up  in  amaze.  All  eyes  were  turned 
to  him.  Suddenly  there  came  flashing  along 
the  great  choirs  who  bent  humbly  before  him, 
a mighty  Archangel,  his  broad  wings  extended, 
his  hair  flying  like  a cloud  behind  him,  and  he 
stood  over  Astrael,  and  said,  “ Follow  me ! ” 
And  Astrael  rose,  and  followed  him  far  up 
among  the  Cherubim  and  Seraphim,  until  at 


172  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

last  a great  light  shone  upon  him,  like  the  light 
of  a thousand  suns,  and  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  for  he  was  blinded,  and  found 
himself  standing  face  to  face  with  the  Queen 
of  Heaven.  Gabriel  stood  beside  him.  And 
his  Queen  spoke  thus,  and  her  voice  was  soft 
and  gentle  : “ Astrael,  I know  the  prayer  of 

your  heart.  To-day  it  is  granted  to  you.  For 
to-day  there  is  bom  on  earth  a child  whom 
I place  under  your  protection.  She  shall  be 
called  Mary.  Bring  her  safe  here  to  the  foot 
of  my  throne  to  bless  you  and  me  for  ever ! ” 
Astrael  thought  he  should  have  died  from  joy 
at  this  mark  of  favour  from  the  great  Queen. 
He  could  not  speak,  so  he  bowed  very  low ; 
and,  accompanied  by  Gabriel,  shot  down  like 
an  arrow  from  heaven,  and  passed  out  amongst 
the  stars. 


II 

A dark  and  narrow  lane  in  a crowded  city, 
a tall  house,  black  and  begrimed  from  smoke, 
windows  broken  and  patched  with  paper,  a 
rickety  staircase  that  led  up  and  up  ever  so 
high  to  an  attic,  where  the  rafters,  festooned 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  173 

with  cobwebs,  were  plainly  visible,  and  under 
the  rafters  a wooden  box  filled  with  a little 
straw,  and  on  the  straw  a little  babe  just  born 
— here  is  what  Astrael  saw  when  he  had  swept 
the  bright  skies  and  fluttered  to  the  earth.  It 
was  a tiny  babe,  but  very  beautiful,  with  blue 
eyes  that  blinked  at  the  light,  and  a little  rose- 
bud of  a mouth,  and  pink  fingers  that  opened 
and  shut,  and  found  nothing.  And  Astrael 
bent  over  the  cradle  lovingly,  and  fanned  the 
babe  with  his  great  wings,  and  felt  very  happy. 
After  a few  days  he  stood  beside  the  baptismal 
font,  saw  the  white  robe  of  innocence  placed 
round  the  infant,  and  heard  it  called  by  the 
sweet  name  of  “ Mary.”  Then  he  rested  for 
seven  years,  gathering  all  his  strength  for  the 
struggle  which  he  knew  was  coming.  Now  and 
again  he  would  sweep  down  to  the  earth,  and 
whisper  some  things  to  the  mother,  and  then 
she  would  clasp  her  child  closer,  and  pray  and 
pray  that  God  would  save  her  child  from  sin. 
And  then,  when  Mary  could  walk,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  know  the  names  of  things,  Astrael 
would  teach  her  the  names  of  Jesus  and  His 
Mother,  and  put  little  pictures  in  her  way,  and 
lead  her  sometimes  into  the  quiet  church,  where 


1 74  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

she  would  sit  for  hours,  the  angel  by  her  side, 
looking  up  and  wondering  at  the  pictures  in 
the  stained-glass  window,  at  the  statues  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  and  the  Madonna,  and,  above  all, 
at  the  great  crucifix  that  stood  by  the  pulpit 
with  the  white  figure  upon  it,  and  the  red 
marks  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side.  Some- 
how, she  could  scarcely  tear  herself  away  from 
the  study  of  this  crucifix.  She  would  sit,  her 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  blue  eyes  wide  open 
and  sorrowful,  gazing  at  the  sad  face  and  droop- 
ing figure,  the  wreath  of  thorns  on  the  head, 
the  black  nails,  the  red  blood.  But  above  all, 
the  sad  eyes  of  the  figure  haunted  her.  She 
thought  they  were  looking  straight  into  her 
own,  and  once  or  twice  she  thought  she  saw  the 
lips  parting,  and  heard  the  voice  speaking,  and 
she  was  going  up  to  the  crucifix,  when  her 
mother  lifted  her  from  the  bench,  and  took 
her  home,  and  said  she  was  a strange  child. 

Now,  the  seven  years  went  by,  and  the  struggle 
commenced.  One  day,  when  Astrael,  full  of  joy, 
had  entered  the  little  room,  he  saw  sitting  close 
by  Mary  a dark  spirit,  in  whose  eyes  there  was 
a baleful  fire,  but  who  spoke  so  softly,  so  sweetly, 
that  the  angel  Astrael  was  deceived,  until  he 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  175 

saw  on  the  forehead  of  the  spirit  the  red  mark 
that  denoted  eternal  reprobation.  He  was  face 
to  face,  the  first  time  for  several  thousand  years, 
with  a fallen  spirit.  He  trembled,  but  recovered 
himself,  and  took  his  usual  place  by  Mary’s 
side.  But,  when  he  looked  on  the  child,  he 
was  frightened.  The  sweet  look  of  peace  had 
died  away  from  the  blue  eyes,  which  were  now 
troubled,  the  face  was  hot  and  flushed,  and 
the  hands  that  had  lain  so  peacefully  together 
were  clenched  and  moistened.  Some  dark 
thought  was  in  the  mind  of  the  child.  It  was 
the  first  temptation.  The  dark  spirit  spoke, 
and  the  face  became  more  clouded.  He  brought 
up  before  the  mind  of  the  child  some  hard 
words  that  had  passed  in  school  between  the 
children  that  day,  and  he  touched  with  his 
dark  finger  a red  burning  spot  where  a little 
girl  had  struck  Mary’s  cheek  in  her  anger.  He 
prompted  her  to  revenge,  told  her  how  sweet 
it  would  be  to  strike  back  again,  and  how  her 
companions  would  applaud  her.  The  child’s 
face  grew'  darker  and  darker ; the  crimson  on 
her  cheek  grew  brighter  and  brighter. 

Astrael  was  in  despair,  and  in  despair  he 
cried  aloud  to  his  Queen  to  assist  him.  That 


176  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

moment  the  mother  entered.  She  had  on  her 
shawl  and  bonnet.  She  had  returned  from 
market,  and  thought  she  would  pay  a visit  to 
the  church.  She  called  to  Mary  to  come ; but 
Mary  did  not  heed  her.  She  came  over  and 
shook  the  child,  and  then,  seeing  her  burning 
face  and  her  eyes  bloodshot,  she  cried  out  with 
a great  cry,  fearing  that  her  child  was  sick. 
And,  snatching  her  up  hastily,  she  fled  to  the 
church,  flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  the  crucifix, 
and  cried  to  God  with  all  her  heart  to  save  her 
child.  Now,  the  child  was  saved  ; but  not,  as 
the  mother  thought,  from  death,  but  from  sin. 
For  no  sooner  had  Mary  seen  the  crucifix,  and 
looked  into  the  sorrowful  eyes  that  seemed  ever 
so  sad  to-day,  and  recollected  all  that  she  had 
heard  of  the  sufferings  of  her  Saviour,  than 
her  heart  was  broken  with  sorrow,  and  she 
felt  a great  lump  in  her  throat,  and  she  leaned 
on  her  mother  and  wept  bitterly. 

Ill 

Now,  months  and  years  rolled  by,  and  every- 
thing seemed  to  go  smoothly  with  Mary,  but 
it  was  a terrible  and  anxious  time  for  her  angel. 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  177 

If  he  never  left  her  side,  even  for  an  instant, 
neither  did  the  dark  spirit.  And  no  one  can 
suspect  what  an  awful  conflict  was  being  waged 
around  the  soul  of  that  little  child.  Daily  she 
went  to  school,  her  face  shining,  her  yellow 
curls  tossed  over  her  shoulders,  her  blue  eyes 
looking  before  her,  and  above  her;  and  within 
her  was  raging  the  conflict  of  sin  and  grace, 
of  darkness  and  light.  How  watchful  all  the 
time  her  good  angel  was ! How  carefully  he 
removed  from  her  way  the  snares  that  were  laid 
for  her  by  the  enemy ; how  often  he  laid  his 
fingers  softly  over  her  eyes,  lest  they  should 
stray  from  curiosity  into  danger ; how  often 
he  closed  her  lips  when  she  was  tempted  to 
utter  angry  words ; and  how  tenderly  he  put 
her  hands  together,  and  guarded  the  wander- 
ing mind  when  she  knelt  at  prayer,  and  gave 
up  her  soul  to  God  ! 

These  last  were  happy  times  for  Astrael.  They 
were  the  only  moments  of  relief  he  enjoyed 
during  the  day.  When  the  mother  took  Mary 
to  morning  Mass,  or  to  evening  Benediction, 
Astrael  could  go  aside  into  some  private  chapel, 
and  join  his  brother  angels  in  the  canticle  of 
triumph  that  goes  up  everlastingly  from  the 

M 


I 


178  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

choirs  of  angels,  both  in  heaven  and  upon  earth. 
But  these  were  brief  moments.  The  instant 
Mary  set  foot  outside  the  church,  the  angel’s 
charge  commenced  again,  and  lasted  through 
the  day,  and  even  into  the  watches  of  the  night. 
For  even  when  darkness  was  upon  the  face  of 
nature,  darkness  unbroken  save  by  the  silver 
lamps  which  the  angels  hung  out  in  heaven, 
and  when  the  restless  eyes  of  the  world  were 
closed,  and  Mary  amongst  other  children  of 
humanity  breathed  peacefully  in  her  little  cot, 
Astrael  stood  watching,  his  broad  wings  closed, 
and  himself  motionless  except  for  the  night 
wind  that  lifted  now  and  again  his  long  hair 
from  his  shoulders.  It  was  a beautiful  sight — 
the  angel  and  the  child.  Mary  peacefully 
breathing  in  the  calm  sleep  of  childhood,  her 
yellow  hair  tossed  over  the  pillow,  like  threads 
of  gold',  and  her  face  calm  and  beautiful.  The 
angel  looking  at  her  intently,  dreaming  of  the 
time  when  she  would  be  a saint  in  heaven,  and 
he  would  claim  her  as  his  child,  and  now  and 
again  turning  from  her  to  look  up  into  the  eyes 
of  the  stars,  and  thinking  of  the  bright  courts 
above  them. 

In  childhood  time  passes  quickly,  because  it 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  179 

is  a period  of  enjoyment.  The  days  flew  by 
rapidly,  and  whenever  her  birthday  came  round, 
Mary  wondered  how  a year  could  seem  so  short. 
At  last  one  morning  she  awoke,  and  her  mother 
kissed  her,  and  some  little'  friend  sent  her  a 
pretty  book,  and  on  the  inner  page  was  written  : 
“ To  Mary  on  her  eleventh  birthday.”  “ Eleven  ! 
Can  it  be  possible  ? ” thought  Mary.  “ Why  I 
am  quite  an  old  woman,”  and  she  ran  rapidly 
to  the  looking-glass  ; but  there  was  not  a single 
grey  hair  in  her  yellow  plaits,  not  a single 
wrinkle  in  the  pink  cheeks ; but,  all  the  same, 
Mary  looked  very  grave,  for  she  felt  life  was 
commencing  in  earnest,  and  when  she  knelt 
down  that  morning  she  said  with  double  fervour 
that  beautiful  prayer  to  her  guardian  : “ O 

Angel  of  God,  to  whose  holy  care  I am  com- 
mitted,” &c. 

But  there  was  something  else  that  made  our 
child  very  grave,  yet  very  happy  this  morning. 
For  the  great  event  of  her  childhood,  her  First 
Communion,  had  been  deferred  until  her  eleventh 
year.  Mary  was  one  of  the  quickest  in  her 
class.  She  was  not  only  studious,  but  God  had 
given  her  great  gifts,  and  she  had  not  only 
mastered  her  Catechism,  but  she  knew  the 


1 8 o How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

meaning  of  every  word,  and  could  sometimes 
give  a little  lecture  of  her  own  on  the  mysteries 
of  our  holy  faith.  But  it  was  thought  better  to 
wait  until  she  was  a little  more  grown,  that  she 
might  have  more  time  to  prepare  carefully  for 
the  great  day  of  First  Communion.  But  now 
that  she  was  eleven,  there  was  no  further  obstacle 
in  the  way,  and  hence  was  she  very  grave,  very 
serious,  but  very  happy  on  this  birthday  morning. 

The  next  few  months  flew  rapidly  by.  It  was 
midsummer,  and  one  morning  when  the  sun  was 
shining  eyer  so  warmly  on  the  earth,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  the  incense  which  the  flowers  sent  up 
towards  heaven,  sixty  children  assembled  in  their 
parochial  church  to  make  their  First  Communion. 

There  was  a vast  number  of  people  present, 
the  mothers  and  sisters  of  the  children,  and 
what  they  saw  was  this  : Six  rows  of  children, 
all  dressed  in  white  with  blue  sashes,  with  veils 
over  their  head^,  and  flowers  and  candles  in  their 
hands ; and  they  looked  so  serious,  yet  so 
happy,  that  many  aged  persons  felt  themselves 
deeply  touched,  and  sometimes  a tear  would 
gather  and  steal  down  the  furrowed  cheeks  of 
some  who  remembered  their  own  First  Com- 
munion of  long  ago,  and  thought  of  the  many 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  1 8 1 

things  that  had  happened  since  then.  But  I 
saw  something  more  than  the  people.  For  I 
saw  amongst  the  ranks  of  the  children  many 
bright  spirits  that  stood  motionless  and  silent, 
each  watching  his  precious  charge,  and  amongst 
them  I recognised  Astrael,  looking  ever  so  happy 
and  so  bright,  as  he  bent  over  Mary’s  golden 
hair,  and  whispered  to  her  many  beautiful 
things  of  God  and  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and 
the  Holy  Mother.  Not  a trace  was  there  of 
the  dark  spirits  this  morning.  They  dared  not 
come  into  so  holy  a place ; and  as  the  angels 
hovered  over  their  precious  charges,  I could 
not  see  a trace  of  anxiety  on  their  faces.  They 
seemed  as  happy  as  the  children. 

Well,  the  Mass  went  on.  The  children  had 
approached  the  altar  rails,  and  had  now  re- 
turned to  their  places,  when  I saw  Astrael  arise 
and  leave  Mary’s  side,  and  hovering  in  the  air 
for  an  instant,  I saw  him  kneeling  before  a 
statue  of  the  Virgin  and  Child  that  was  placed 
in  one  of  the  side-chapels.  For  a while  he  was 
motionless.  He  then  passed  his  hand  slowly 
across  his  forehead  as  if  he  were  thinking 
whether  he  was  going  to  do  what  was  right.  At 
last  he  fully  made  up  his  mind,  and,  with  his 


1 8 2 How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

hands  clasped,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  statue 
of  his  Queen,  he  prayed  ever  so  earnestly — that 
Mary  might  die  ! 

What  a terrible  thing,  you  will  say ; but 
nevertheless  it  is  true.  He  prayed  that  Mary 
might  die  in  her  perfect  innocence.  He  thought 
of  the  past,  of  the  first  temptation,  of  the  risks 
that  Mary  ran,  of  the  narrow  escape  from  sin 
she  had  had ; he  thought  of  heaven,  and  how 
certainly  now  Mary  would  be  admitted  there ; 
he  thought  of  the  angels  whom  he  had  some- 
times seen  returning,  and  whose  hot  tears  fell 
on  the  shining  floors  of  the  heavenly  city,  and 
he  shuddered  and  trembled  to  think  that  this 
might  possibly  be  his  own  fate  if  Mary  should 
live,  and  he  prayed  ever  so  earnestly  that  his 
Queen  would  now  take  her  child  to  heaven  in 
her  innocence ; and,  strange  to  say,  his  prayer 
was  heard,  for  he  saw  distinctly  the  statue  bend 
its  head  towards  him  ; and,  full  of  joy,  he  flew 
back  and  once  more  took  his  place  at  the  side 
of  Mary. 


IV 

There  were  a few  days  of  rejoicing,  of  intense 
piety  and  happiness,  and  then  Mary  felt  a 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  183 

strange  languor  creep  over  her.  The  hand  of 
the  great  dark  angel,  called  Death,  was  laid 
upon  her. 

She  struggled  against  it,  became  more  gay 
and  playful  than  ever  for  a while,  but  the  angel 
was  too  strong  for  her,  and  gradually  she  faded 
away.  The  roses  disappeared  from  her  cheeks, 
her  quick,  elastic  step  became  slow  and  heavy, 
her  breathing  became  very  difficult,  and  she 
often  felt  inclined  to  lie  down  and  rest,  though 
she  had  done  nothing  to  tire  herself.  Her 
mother,  for  a while,  shut  her  eyes  to  Mary’s 
illness,  but  one  day,  whilst  the  child  was  bend- 
ing over  the  fire,  there  came  upon  her  a sharp, 
dry  cough,  that  shook  her  and  made  her  tremble 
all  over  ; and  the  mother  started  from  her  seat, 
and  then  resumed  her  work,  but  a great  lump 
gathered  in  her  throat,  and  a big  tear  slowly 
filled,  and  fell  upon  her  hand.  But  when  Mary 
asked,  “ What  is  the  matter,  mamma  ? ” she 
said  nothing,  but  proceeded  with  her  work. 

And  now  Mary  felt  a strange  longing  for  soli- 
tude. The  noise  of  the  children  in  the  streets 
distressed  her,  and  she  would  steal  away  from 
her  playmates,  and  hide  herself  behind  the 
pillars  of  the  church,  turning  over  and  over  the 


1 84  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

leaves  of  the  prayer-book,  or  the  beads  of  the 
Rosary.  Her  favourite  spot  was  before  that 
very  statue  near  which  Astrael  had  prayed  for 
her  death.  And  her  angel,  when  he  saw  her 
there,  her  white  face  lifted  up  towards  our 
Blessed  Lady,  her  thin  fingers  rolling  the  beads, 
and  death,  all  the  time,  stealing  away  her  life, 
felt  a kind  of  remorse  and  pain,  because  he  had 
prayed  that  the  great  Queen  might  take  her 
to  heaven.  And  so  the  days  went  on,  and  every 
day  Mary  grew  more  weak  and  pale  and  thin, 
and  the  cough  became  worse,  until  at  last  she 
could  no  longer  move  of  herself,  but  her  mother 
used  to  lift  her,  and  place  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
put  before  her  a picture  of  her  dear  Madonna, 
which  she  had  won  as  a prize  at  school.  And 
now  came  a time  when  Astrael  had  to  pray 
and  watch  without  ceasing.  For  now  the  dark 
spirit  redoubled  his  attacks  on  the  soul  of  the 
child,  and  seven  other  spirits,  worse  than  him- 
self, were  there,  to  tempt  the  poor  child  to  sin. 
But  prayer  and  holy  inspirations,  and  pious 
thoughts  came  to  help  her,  and  the  grace  which 
she  had  received  in  her  First  Communion  was 
there  untouched  and  undiminished. 

At  last  the  great  harvest  feast  of  our  Lady 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  185 

came  round.  It  was  again  the  eve  of  the  Assump- 
tion. All  the  children  were  to  go  to  Holy  Com- 
munion in  the  morning  ; and  Mary,  now  brought 
very  low,  yearned  to  go  with  the  rest,  and  kneel 
at  the  Holy  Altar,  where  she  had  received  such 
graces  before.  She  asked  her  mother  might  she 
go  ; but  her  mother  shook  her  head  sadly.  She 
promised,  however,  that  early  in  the  morning, 
immediately  after  the  first  Mass,  the  priest 
should  come  to  her.  That  night  the  angel  never 
stirred  from  his  post  by  the  foot  of  Mary’s  bed. 
Deep  down  by  the  corners  of  the  walls,  and  up 
in  the  corners  of  the  ceiling,  were  myriads  of 
dark  spirits,  crouching  and  afraid,  yet  with 
baleful  eyes  fixed  on  the  dying  girl.  They 
dared  not  approach.  For  Astrael,  with  wings 
stretched  out  and  head  bowed  down,  held  a 
long  sword  of  flame,  extended  along  Mary’s 
couch,  and  it  quivered  and  shone  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  its  bright  light  was  a terror  to  the 
spirits  of  evil.  And  there  was  the  angel,  calm, 
silent,  quiet,  but  determined  that  no  harm  should 
reach  that  soul  which  he  had  kept  pure  till  now. 

The  morning  dawned  bright  and  warm.  The 
deep  bell  tolling  for  Mass  awoke  Mary,  and  for 
the  last  time  she  whispered  her  prayer  to  her 


1 8 6 How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

Angel  Guardian.  Her  thoughts  went  out  to  the 
church,  and  the  groups  of  happy  communicants  ; 
and,  as  the  music  of  the  hymns  which  the  children 
sang  came  into  her  memory,  she  could  not  help 
crying  very  softly  to  herself.  And  then  her 
mother  came,  and  put  on  her  white  dress  and 
blue  sash,  and  placed  on  her  head  the  wreath 
of  flowers  that  she  had  worn  before,  and  as  she 
lay  in  her  bed,  very  peaceful  and  very  happy, 
the  tinkling  of  a little  bell  stole  into  her  ears, 
and  she  knew  that  her  Lord  was  coming  to  her. 
How  the  dark  angels  trembled  and  feared,  and 
pushed  each  other  against  the  walls,  as  the 
priest  mounted  the'  stairs  and  deposited  on 
the  table  the  sacred  vessel  that  contained  Our 
Lord  ! And  when,  kneeling  lowly,  he  uncovered 
it,  Astrael  sheathed  his  sword  of  flame,  and 
drew  in  and  covered  his  face  with  his  wings, 
for  even  he  dared  not  look  on  the  Holy  One, 
the  Mighty,  “ before  whom  the  stars  are  not 
pure.”  But  Mary,  propped  with  pillows,  her 
hands  clasped,  her  eyes  shining,  received  her 
Lord  meekly  and  holily,  and  then,  shutting  her 
eyes,  lay  back  very  peaceful  and  very  happy. 
And  now  Extreme  Unction  was  administered, 
and  the  Plenary  Indulgence  imparted,  and  the 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  187 

priest  passed  away.  But  Astrael  stirred  not, 
but  kept  his  watch. 

The  day  wore  on.  Many  prayers  were  offered 
up  for  the  dying  child,  she  herself  slumbering 
peacefully.  Murmurs  rose  all  day  long  round 
the  bedside ; murmurs  of  supplication  to  the 
throne  of  heaven  for  the  sweet  child  whom  every 
one  loved  for  her  meekness  and  sanctity.  Her 
schoolmates  came  in  during  the  afternoon  in 
their  white  dresses.  They  came  to  say  a last 
word  to  their  dear  companion.  But  when  they 
saw  her  sleeping  so  calmly  they  would  not 
disturb  her,  but  each  of  them  in  turn  put  a 
little  offering  of  flowers  on  the  bed,  and  kissed 
the  white  lips,  and  said  “ Good-bye,  Mary  ! ” 

Evening  came'.  High  up  in  the  sky  the  clouds 
were  piled.  You  could  see  them  plainly  from 
Mary’s  bed  in  the  attic ; and  they  were  turned 
all  red  and  purple  and  gold  by  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun ; six  o’clock  came,  and  in  a few 
seconds  the  Angelus  Bell  rang  out  its  three 
clear  notes.  Mary  started  up,  and  looked  round 
frightened.  In  a moment  her  mother’s  arm  was 
around  her. 

“ Where  am  I,  mamma  ? ” said  she. 

“ Here,  my  child,  at  home,”  said  the  mother. 


1 8 8 How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

“ And  those  flowers,  what  brought  them  here  ? ” 
said  Mary  feeling  the  leaves,  to  assure  herself 
that  they  were  real. 

“ Your  companions  brought  them,  my  child,” 
said  the  mother. 

“ Because — because,”  said  the  dying  girl,  pass- 
ing her  hand  slowly  over  her  forehead,  “ because 
I was  dreaming,  and  I thought  that  I saw  the 
Blessed  Virgin  in  the  heavens,  seated  on  a golden 
throne  amongst  the  clouds,  just  like  them,” 
pointing  to  the  red  clouds  piled  above  her  win- 
dow, “ and  there  was  a multitude  of  angels 
with  her,  and  there  was  one  I knew — at  least, 
I thought  I knew — and  he  looked  at  me  so 
kindly,  and  he  flung  these  flowers  at  me,  and 
then — and  then  ” — her  breathing  came  very 
fast — “ and  then — our  Lady — beckoned  to  me, 
and  I was  just — rising — up — to  go  to  her,  and 
then — and  then — and  then  ” — the  rosy  clouds 
threw  a beautiful  light  on  her  face,  then  came 
a white  shadow,  and  the  eyes  closed  and  the 
lips  parted  in  a smile  ; and  the  mother,  sobbing, 
bent  down  and  kissed  the  poor  white  lips,  and 
said,  as  the  last  tones  of  the  Angelus  were  linger- 
ing in  the  air,  “ And  then,  my  pet,  our  Lady 
took  you  safe  to  her  home  in  heaven.” 


How  the  Angel  became  Happy  189 

But  that  wasn’t  quite  right,  for  I saw  Astrael 
with  a look  of  joy  I shall  remember  for  ever, 
put  his  sword  into  its  sheath,  and  clasping  the 
beautiful  soul  of  the  child  in  his  arms,  he  sped 
upwards  through  the  rosy  clouds,  cleaving  the 
light  air  with  every  pulsation  of  his  wings,  and 
singing  a carol  of  triumph,  that  made  the  lark, 
who  was  enjoying  his  evening  song,  quite 
ashamed,  and  fly  down  to  his  little  ones  in  the 
nest. 

Wasn’t  there  joy  in  heaven,  as  Astrael,  with 
his  precious  charge,  stood  once  more  on  the 
shining  floors ! How  the  angels  smiled  and 
welcomed  him  ; and  then  made  a long  avenue 
for  him  and  Mary,  as  they  sped  up  and  up 
and  to  the  great  White  Throne  of  the  Judge. 
And  how  did  Astrael  feel  when,  passing  the 
throne  of  our  Lady,  she  smiled  on  him,  and 
said,  “ Well  done,  good  and  faithful  Astrael ! ” 
and  when,  still  farther  up,  he  placed  his  precious 
charge  before  the  Judgment  Seat ; and  without 
a word  of  examination,  the  Eternal  Word  took 
the  child  and  presented  her  to  the  Father  and 
to  the  Holy  Ghost. 

The  mother  was  weeping  by  the  little  bed,  on 
which  lay  the  lifeless  body  of  her  child.  She 


1 90  How  the  Angel  became  Happy 

had  composed  the  arms  on  the  bosom,  and  placed 
a crucifix  between  them,  and  ever  and  anon  she 
hid  her  face  in  the  bedclothes,  and  murmured, 
“ God  help  me  this  holy  night.”  She  didn’t 
understand  that  her  child  was  standing  bright 
and  beautiful,  amongst  the  heavenly  choirs,  nor 
that  there  was  an  angel,  named  Astrael,  who 
would  not  be  contented  with  stars  and  flowers, 
but  he  had  a child  given  him,  and  he  had  saved 
her,  and  that  child  was  Mary. 

And  this  was  how  the  angel  became  happy. 


FRANK  FORREST’S  MINCE-PIE 


I 

“ I declare,  Frank,”  said  Mrs.  Forrest,  “ that 
is  the  fourth  mince-pie  you  have  eaten  this 
evening.  I am  afraid,  my  boy,  they  will  make 
you  ill,  so  put  away  this  one  until  to-morrow.” 

Frank  knew  not  how  to  disobey  his  beloved 
mother ; so  he  promptly  took  up  the  delicacy, 
and  placed  it  in  the  cupboard.  It  was  Christmas 
Eve.  Presently  a feeble,  timid  knock  was  heard  ; 
and,  as  cook  was  ever  so  busy  preparing  tarts 
and  pies  for  the  morrow,  Frank  ran  to  the  door 
and  opened  it.  A gust  of  sleety  wind  nearly 
lifted  him  from  his  feet,  and  a few  snowflakes 
fell  softly  on  the  floor,  and  melted  slowly  on 
the  carpet  in  the  hall. 

“ Something  for  the  children,”  said  a weak, 
faltering  voice  ; and  Frank  saw  before  him  a 
pale,  delicate  woman  shivering  in  the  icy  wind. 
She  had  a child  in  her  arms,  looking  sickly, 
and  the  snow  had  made  a little  crown  for  his 


1 91 


192  Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie 

head  on  the  cloak  which  his  mother  had  wrapped 
around  him.  She  held  another  child  by  the 
hand,  and  its  little  rags  flapped  and  fluttered, 
as  the  cruel  storm  tossed  them,  and  pierced  the 
little  limbs  with  its  icy  needles. 

“ Stop  a moment,”  said  Frank,  who  was  a 
rough,  brusque,  manly  lad,  but  had  tender  feel- 
ings, though  he  was  unconscious  of  possessing 
them.  In  a few  moments  he  returned  with  the 
following  miscellany,  several  buns,  scraps  of 
cold  meat,  a paper  of  tea,  a paper  of  soft  sugar, 
a bunch  of  raisins,  a wooden  monkey  on  a stick, 
a battered  doll,  and,  crowning  all,  his  own  mince- 
pie  which  he  had  put  away  for  the  morrow. 

“ God  bless  you,  dear,”  said  the  woman,  as 
she  opened  her  apron  and  wrapped  up  all  these 
treasures  ; and  a smile  flashed  across  her  face 
and  lighted  up  her  eyes,  as  if  an  angel  had 
rushed  by  and  touched  and  transfigured  her. 

Nine  o’clock  came,  and  Frank  sat  by  his  bed- 
room fire,  watching  the  flames  dancing  and 
leaping,  and  gambolling  around  the  bars.  Then, 
slowly  and  reluctantly,  he  pulled  off  one  shoe 
after  another,  and  soon  found  himself  nestling 
in  his  little  cot,  listening  to  the  wild  storm  that 
shook  the  windows,  and  wondering  where  were 


Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie  193 

the  children  resting  whom  he  had  seen  that 
afternoon.  Softly  sleep  stole  upon  him,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes  in  the  peaceful  slumber  of  boy- 
hood. 

Boom  — boom  — boom.  It  was  the  great 
Cathedral  bell  swinging  out  the  midnight  hour, 
and  sending  its  welcome  tones  on  the  wings  of 
the  storm.  Frank  started  up. 

Ding  - dong,  ding  - dong,  ding  - dong  ; and, 
mingling  their  sweet  silvery  notes  with  the  deep 
booming,  the  joybells  pealed  out  rapturously 
the  Christmas  chimes.  Frank  heard  the  hall- 
door  open  and  shut,  and  he  knew  that  mother 
was  going  through  the  storm  to  the  midnight 
Mass.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  around. 
Heigho ! what’s  this  ? He  rubbed  his  eyes 
again,  then  started  up  and  leaned  on  his  elbow. 
No  doubt  about  it.  There,  in  his  own  chair, 
opposite  the  fire,  was  a little  old  man,  not  a bit 
bigger  than  Frank  himself.  He  held  his  hands 
before  the  fire,  and  Frank  could  see  their  dark 
shadows  distinctly  before  the  red  embers.  For 
a moment  the  boy  was  astonished,  but  presently 
his  boyish  daring  and  courage  came  back,  and 
he  shouted  cheerily  : 

“ Hallo  ! old  fellow,  a happy  Christmas  ! ” 

N 


194  Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie 

The  stranger  rose  slowly,  then  came  to  the 
bedside,  his  two  hands  folded  behind  his  back, 
and  bending  over  the  boy,  he  exclaimed,  half- 
seriously,  half- jestingly  : 

“ Ah  ! you  bad  boy  ! ” 

“ I am  not  a bad  boy,”  said  Frank,  indignant 
at  such  an  answer  to  his  welcome,  “ and  you 
have  no  right  to  say  so.” 

“ Where’s  my  mince-pie  ? ” said  the  old 
man,  lifting  up  one  finger,  and  shaking  it 
warningly. 

“ I am  sure,”  said  Frank,  “ I don’t  know 
where’s  your  mince-pie ; but  I gave  mine  to  a 
poor  woman.” 

“ Ah  ! you  bad  boy,”  said  the  stranger  again, 
as  he  slowly  turned  away  and  took  up  his  seat 
by  the  fireplace. 

But  Frank  knew  that  the  old  man  did  not 
mean  what  he  said.  Presently,  his  hand  dived 
deep,  deep  down  into  his  pocket,  and  he  placed 
on  the  table,  near  Frank’s  collars  and  cuffs,  the 
very  identical  mince-pie  which  Frank  had  given 
the  poor  woman  at  the  door.  There  it  was, 
with  its  mitred  edge,  its  brown  crust,  and  the 
five  currants  which  Frank  had  ordered  the  cook 
to  place  crosswise  on  the  top.  The  old  man 


Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie  195 

lifted  off  the  crust  and  placed  it  gently  beside 
him. 

“ He’s  going  to  eat  it,  the  old  glutton,” 
thought  Frank ; “he  surely  stole  it  from  the 
poor  woman.”  But  no ! he  simply  lighted  a 
match  on  the  coals,  and  swiftly  passed  it  round 
the  edge  of  the  pie  before  him.  A bright  blue 
flame  shot  upwards,  flickering  and  flashing  in 
the  darkness  till  it  reached  the  ceiling.  Then 
it  assumed  gradually  the  form  of  a house  on 
fire.  The  windpws  were  shown  clearly  against 
the  dark  walls  by  the  terrible  flames  within, 
and  Frank  could  see  the  little  spurts  of  fire  that 
broke  from  the  slates  on  the  roof.  Now  there 
was  a rumbling  and  the  confused  murmur  of 
many  voices,  and  the  tramping  of  many  feet, 
and  a noise  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea.  Then 
therb  was  a wild  shout,  and  a tiny  jet  of  water 
rose  like  a thread  from  the  crowd  and  scattered 
its  showers  upon  the  fire.  Another  shout,  and 
the  boy’s  heart  sank  within  him  as  he  saw  at 
the  window  of  the  burning  house  a young  lad 
like  himself,  clad  only  in  his  night-dress,  terror 
and  agony  on  his  face,  and  his  arms  flung  wildly 
hither  and  thither.  A cheer  went  up,  and  a 
ladder  was  planted  firmly  against  the  window, 


196  Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie 

and  a sailor  lad  swiftly  ascended,  and  in  a 
moment  the  little  fluttering  figure  was  grasped 
in  the  strong  arms,  and  carried  safely  where 
gentle  hands  and  warm  hearts  would  protect 
him.  Frank’s  heart  was  throbbing  wildly,  the 
perspiration  stood  out  in  beads  on  his  forehead, 
when  he  heard  the  harsh  voice  of  the  old  man  : 

“ Shut  your  eyes  ! ” 

Frank  shut  them,  but  kept  one  little  corner 
open,  and  he  saw  the  old  man  quietly  taking  up 
the  crust  and  place  it  in  the  pie,  completely 
extinguishing  this  awful  conflagration.  And  the 
Christmas  bells  were  chiming. 

“ Shut  your  eyes ! ” said  the  old  man  again, 
quite  angrily.  And  Frank  shut  them,  and  kept 
them  closed  for  a long  time,  as  he  thought. 

“ Look,”  said  the  same  voice. 

Frank  opened  his  eyes,  fearing  and  wondering 
what  new  strange  vision  was  going  to  burst 
on  him.  It  was  nothing  terrible,  however  ; but 
somehow  the  mince-pie  had  expanded  and  grown 
into  a deep  and  broad  valley,  with  rugged  rocks 
and  strange  dark  places,  and  black  mountains 
huddled  together,  and  tossed  about  as  if  by  an 
earthquake.  And  from  their  midst  rose  a mighty 
peak,  the  base  of  which  was.  clothed  with  fir 


Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie  197 

trees,  and  farther  up  were  black  frowning  rocks, 
and  the  top  was  crowned  by  a pinnacle  of  snow 
that  shot  up  high  into  the  air,  and  was  lost 
beyond  the  ceiling  of  the  little  bedroom.  At 
the  base  of  the  mountain  was  a village,  and 
there  was  a bustle  in  the  village,  and  the  noise 
of  many  tongues.  In  the  street  many  mules 
were  standing,  laden  with  provisions,  and  three 
guides,  tall  and  strong,  and  brown,  strolled  up 
and  down,  their  alpenstocks  in  their  hands,  and 
huge  coils  of  rope  strung  across  their  shoulders. 
Three  young  gentlemen  stood  apart,  talking 
earnestly.  They  were  young,  scarcely  more 
than  boys,  but  there  was  vigour  and  courage  in 
their  looks,  and  gait  and  manner.  They  had 
not  heard  of  the  word  “ Danger  ! ” At  last  one 
separated  from  the  rest,  and  walked  away  quite 
dejected  and  angry.  The  word  was  given,  and 
the  two  gentlemen  and  their  guides  set  out  to 
scale  the  mountain.  They  were  watched  until 
they  turned  the  spur  of  the  hill.  Then  one 
ringing  cheer,  and  they  disappeared  in  the 
shadows  of  the  mountains.  The  day  wore  on, 
and  evening  came.  But  before  the  twilight 
descended,  Frank  saw  that  people  came  from 
their  houses  with  long  telescopes,  and  levelled 


198  Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie 

them  at  the  snowy  summit.  Nothing  was 
visible  there,  as  Frank  could  see,  but  the  cold, 
hard,  glittering  snow,  shining  pink  and  ruby 
from  the  reflections  of  the  fire.  Suddenly  there 
was  a shout : “ There  they  are ! ” Frank 

looked,  and  thought  he  saw  five  tiny  black 
specks  in  the  snow,  linked  together  by  a thread. 
Slowly  these  specks  moved  up  the  slippery  sur- 
face until  they  were  lost  in  the  clouds.  A few 
minutes  those  same  black  specks  reappeared, 
toiling  down  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  of 
ice.  Frank  held  his  breath.  They  had  already 
travelled  down  half  the  mountain,  when  the 
lowest  figure  on  the  rope  fell,  and  one  after 
another  the  brave  climbers  were  tossed  from 
cliff  to  cliff,  from  precipice  to  precipice,  until 
they  were  lost  in  the  black  valleys  beneath.  A 
cry  of  horror  had  gone  up  from  the  village. 
Frank  shut  his  eyes,  and  put  his  fingers  in  his 
ears.  After  a few  moments  he  looked  again, 
and  saw  lights  flashing  in  the  village,  and  dark 
figures  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  he  felt  they 
were  going  out  to  seek  for  the  dead  bodies  of 
the  guides  and  the  two  gentlemen.  Presently 
a bell  began  to  toll,  and  Frank  thought  it  too 
cheerful  for  a funeral ; for  now  down  the  slope 


Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie  199 

of  the  hill,  in  amongst  the  trees,  out  across  the 
valley,  he  saw  the  lights  shining,  and  slowly  the 
procession  entered  the  village.  Mountaineers, 
with  their  heads  bent  down,  carried  on  their 
shoulders  a bier,  and  on  the  bier  was  something 
covered  with  a black  cloth.  Behind  them  came 
a young  man,  whom  Frank  recognised  as  the 
companion,  who  was  left  behind  in  the  morning. 
He  was  weeping  silently,  now  and  again  passing 
his  handkerchief  across  his  face. 

For  one  moment  he  raised  his  head,  and  the 
red  light  of  the  torches  fell  upon  him,  and  Frank 
saw  that  it  was  himself,  and  he  felt  himself 
choking  at  the  thought  of  his  narrow  escape 
from  a terrible  death.  He  lay  for  a while  think- 
ing and  thinking,  when  once  more  he  saw  the 
old  man  by  the  fire  with  the  mince-pie  on  the 
table,  but  the  vision  of  the  valley  was  gone. 
But  the  Christmas  chimes  were  ringing. 

After  a little  while,  once  more  the  voice  of  the 
old  man,  now  very  gently  and  lovingly,  said, 
“ Shut  your  eyes ! ” Frank  closed  his  eyes 
sorrowfully,  for  he  felt  very  sad  and  frightened, 
and  he  dreaded  another  terrible  picture. 

“ Now,”  said  the  old  man,  “ you  may  look  ! ” 


200  Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie 


ii 

Timidly  enough,  Frank  peered  forth ; but 
how  his  heart  bounded  with  joy  when  he  saw 
his  own  beautiful  harbour  painted  in  its  richest 
colourings  of  blue  and  gold,  the  sunshine  stream- 
ing over  its  surface,  and  the  little  waves  dancing 
and  leaping  and  flashing.  He  looked  for  a long 
time  out  over  the  waters,  but  he  heard  the  noise 
of  laughter  and  talking  quite  close  at  hand,  and 
he  saw  just  beneath  him  a large,  beautiful  boat, 
and  somehow  he  thought  that  this  boat  was  but 
his  mince-pie  lengthened  out  and  decorated.  It 
was  heaving  and  rocking  on  the  water,  and  it 
had  the  straightest  mast  and  the  whitest  sail  in 
the  world.  And  in  the  stern  Frank  saw  quite 
a crowd  of  “ fair  women  and,  brave  men,”  and 
he  knew  them  all  as  the  friends  of  his  boyhood, 
though  they  were  changed.  Stout  watermen  in 
blue  jerseys  were  lifting  hampers  over  the  gun- 
wale, and  over  all  there  was  a something  Frank 
never  saw  before.  It  was  a joy  and  a peace  and 
a glory  as  if  reflected  from  some  light  brighter 
than  the  sunshine.  But  he  himself  was  very 
sad.  And  they  pitied  him,  and  said,  “ Another 


Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie  201 


time,  Frank ; don’t  grieve  too  much.”  And 
then  the  oars  were  planted  firmly  on  the  gravel, 
and  the  boat  was  pushed  away,  and  after  a few 
strokes  the  sail  was  lifted,  and  the  breeze  caught 
it  and  carried  the  gay  barque  like  a bird  over 
the  bright  waters.  Frank  turned  away  sick  and 
disappointed,  but  lo  ! as  he  came  along  from 
the  Admiralty  Pier,  he  saw  facing  him  the  poor 
woman  whom  he  had  relieved  and  her  children. 
But  she  was  changed.  She  had  on  that  strange 
look  which  passed  across  her  face  when  the 
angel  touched  her,  and  her  child  was  bright  and 
ruddy,  and  held  forth  his  hands  to  Frank,  and 
the  little  girl,  dressed  ever  so  beautifully,  caught 
Frank  and  bent  him  down  towards  her,  and 
whispered  something  that  Frank  could  not  hear. 
But  a strange  peace  stole  over  his  heart,  and 
all  the  sorrow  and  disappointment  were  gone. 

But  when  the  evening  came  and  the  lamp 
was  lighted,  and  the  books  were  opened,  the 
same  sadness  stole  into  his  heart.  Suddenly 
there  was  a sharp  ring,  and  a succession  of 
knocks,  and  hurried  whisperings  at  the  door, 
and  he  heard  his  mother’s  voice  saying,  “ My 
God ! ” and  then  the  door  of  his  room  opened, 
and  his  mother  glided  in,  and  her  face  was  wet 


202  Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie 


with  tears,  and  Frank  knew  that  the  gay  barque 
of  the  morning  was  drifting  out  a sad  wreck 
into  the  high  seas,  and  he  knew  also  that  his 
dear  friends  from  whom  he  had  parted  so  sadly 
in  the  morning  were  now  lying  cold  and  still  on 
the  sand  and  shingle  down  deep  beneath  the 
cold  blue  waters.  But  mother  came  near  him, 
and  flung  her  arms  round  him,  and  he  heard  her 
say  : 

“ Why,  Frank,  you  lazy  boy,  still  in  bed  at 
eight  o’clock  Christmas  morning.  You  promised 
to  be  first  in  the  sacristy  to  bid  Father  Ambrose 
a happy  Christmas ; and  now  you  must  wait 
for  High  Mass,  and  there’s  a pile  of  Christmas 
Cards  waiting  for  you.” 

Frank  lay  still  a moment,  collecting  his 
thoughts,  doubting  all  things,  thinking  all  things 
a dream.  But  there  was  the  white  light  of  the 
Christmas  snow  shining  in  his  room,  and  there 
was  the  bell  ringing  for  Mass,  and  drawing  a 
long  sigh,  he  exclaimed  : 

“ O mother,  I had  such  a dream.” 

“ Never  mind,  my  boy,”  said  his  mother ; 
“ you  can  tell  it  by-and-by  ! ” 

And  by-and-by,  when  the  tables  were  cleared 
and  they  were  sitting  round  the  fire,  and  there 


Frank  Forrest’s  Mince-Pie  203 

was  not  a shadow  of  gloom  on  the  gay  little 
circle,  Frank  told  his  dream,  his  hand  softly 
clasped  by  his  mother.  And  when  he  had  done, 
she  smoothed  away  his  fair  locks  from  his  fore- 
head, and  kissed  him  gently,  and  said  : 

“ It  was  not  a dream,  Frank,  but  a vision  of 
dangers  from  which  the  good  God  will  preserve 
my  boy  for  his  kindness  to  the  little  ones  of 
Christ.” 


TOPSY1 


Topsy,  you  must  know,  is  a little  terrier,  with 
the  shaggiest  coat  of  hair,  the  blackest  eyes, 
and  the  pertest  little  nose  in  the  world.  Topsy 
is  quite  a genius.  He  not  only  possesses  the 
small  qualifications  of  ordinary  dogs,  such  as 
fetching  sticks,  begging,  &c.,  but  he  can  balance 
biscuits  on  his  nose,  and  catch  them  with  extra- 
ordinary agility,  carry  letters  and  newspapers 
to  the  post,  and  take  the  market-basket  in  his 
mouth  for  the  housekeeper.  He  also  under- 
stands the  science  of  numbers,  and  won’t  touch 
a crumb  of  bread  until  twelve  is  counted.  He 
is  a patriotic  dog,  with  a green  and  gold  collar 
of  which  he  is  evidently  proud.  And  he  can 
“ die  for  the  Pope,”  stretching  himself  at  full 
length,  and  remaining  perfectly  quiet  and  rigid, 
until  bidden  to  rise. 

Topsy  is  the  pet  of  the  family,  but  he  is  my 

1 The  first  story  written  by  Canon  Sheehan. 

204 


lopsy  205 

special  friend.  I am  a physician ; and  when  I 
return  in  the  evening  from  my  sick  calls,  up 
he  jumps  from  the  garden  seat,  on  which  he 
is  usually  rolled  up  like  a ball,  and  frisking, 
yelping,  and  throwing  somersaults,  he  flies  for- 
ward to  welcome  me,  and  then  rushes  to  the 
house  to  apprise  the  family  of  my  arrival.  At 
dinner,  he  sits  patiently  on  the  hearthrug, 
accepting  gratefully  the  morsels  that  fall  to  his 
lot ; and  when  the  children  retire  for  the  night, 
and  I draw  my  easy-chair  to  the  fire,  and  trim 
the  lamp,  and  open  my  favourite  book,  Topsy 
is  my  constant  companion.  This  is  explained 
when  I mention  that  I picked  up  Topsy  one 
day  on  the  streets  of  London.  It  appears  he 
had  been  stolen  from  a lady,  who  was  very  fond 
of  him,  and  had  been  thrown  away  by  the  thief. 
He  was  dirty  and  draggled,  wet  and  starving, 
when  I whistled  to  him.  He  came,  and  since 
that  time  has  been  an  inmate  of  our  house, 
and  a very  pleasant  and  grateful  one  indeed. 

Lately,  however,  I began  to  notice  a change. 
Something  evidently  was  wrong  with  Topsy. 
He  came  at  my  call  as  usual,  but  in  a slow,  de- 
pressed kind  of  way,  that  showed  he  was  entirely 
out  of  spirits.  He  began  to  be  fond  of  going 


206 


by  himself  into  the  stable,  and  lying  on  the 
hay  asleep  during  the  day.  He  shunned  the 
house,  and  even  turned  away  from  the  little 
dainties  that  were  placed  before  him  to  eat. 
This  was  the  case  for  a fortnight  or  so.  I began 
to  think  he  was  sick.  But  no  ! There  were  no 
symptoms  of  illness  about  him.  So  I thought 
I would  solve  the  difficulty  by  putting  the 
question  plainly  to  him.  There  is  nothing  like 
an  explanation.  A few  words  often  settle  little 
differences,  that  may  possibly  grow  into  serious 
disputes. 

So  last  Saturday  evening,  when  the  drawing- 
room was  cleared  out  and  the  little  ones,  after 
rubbing  their  eyes  and  crying  for  being  sent  to 
bed  so  soon,  were  safely  nestled  in  their  cots 
in  the  nursery,  I determined  to  argue  out  the 
question  with  Topsy.  So  I lighted  the  lamp, 
turned  it  on  fully,  and  began  : 

“ Topsy ! ” He  got  up,  stretched  himself, 
yawned,  and  waited. 

“ Tops,”  said  I,  “ get  up  here,  old  fellow,” 
pointing  to  a chair,  which  I drew  near  myself. 
He  jumped  up,  and  for  the  first  time  for  many 
days  he  faintly  wagged  his  tail. 

“ Tops,”  said  I,  “ there’s  something  wrong. 


Topsy  207 

Now  you  and  I are  friends  Out  with  it,  and 
let  us  see  if  we  cannot  make  matters  straight.” 

“ There’s  nothing  wrong,  sir,”  said  Topsy, 
looking  very  serious. 

“ Tops,”  said  I,  “ you  cannot  deceive  me. 
You  know  I am  accustomed  to  study  people, 
and  it  takes  only  a glance  sometimes  to  see 
that  something  is  wrong  in  health  or  spirits. 
Now,  you  who  were  the  friskiest  and  liveliest 
little  dog  in  the  world  are  getting  quite  stupid. 
You  mope  about,  and  refuse  to  eat,  and,  in 
short,  you  are  not  a bit  like  yourself.  What’s 
wrong  ? 

“ Nothing,  sir,”  said  Topsy,  looking  down  and 
studying  his  toes. 

“ Now,  look  here,  Tops,”  said  I looking  very 
stem,  “ there  is  something  wrong,  and  people 
are  saying  it.  Now  I know  you  well,  and  I 
don’t  believe  what  people  are  saying  about  you.” 

“ What  are  they  saying  ? ” said  Topsy,  in- 
dignantly, and  looking  me  full  in  the  face. 

“ Well,  I don’t  like  to  tell  you,  Tops,”  said  I, 
“ but  as  you  will  have  it,  they  are  saying  that 
you  are  getting  mad.”  He  jumped  from  his 
seat  in  alarm  and  anger. 

“ Me  mad  ! ” said  he,  looking  as  brisk  and 


208 


fierce  as  if  he  was  challenged  then  and  there  to 
mortal  combat  with  an  insignificant  rat. 

“ Oh,  well,  don’t  mind  them,”  said  I sooth- 
ingly. “ People  will  talk.  I don’t  believe  a 
word  of  it,  and  that  ought  to  be  enough  for  you, 
I think.” 

“ Well,  it  is  enough,”  said  Topsy,  decisively. 
“ And  now  as  things  have  gone  so  far,  though 
of  course  I don’t  mind  what  people  say — I am 
above  all  that — but  I’ll  tell  you.” 

He  resumed  his  seat  near  me,  and  commenced  : 
“ You  must  know,  sir,”  said  he,  “ that  I am 
not  a common  dog.” 

I bowed  assent. 

“ I belong  to  the  best  and  purest  blood.  I 
was  born  in  a palace,  and  fed  by  a Princess. 
Now,  in  the  refined  society  in  which  I moved, 
I was  taught  dignity,  reserve,  and  easy  manners, 
that  should  never  admit  excitement.  I confess 
it  did  not  quite  suit  my  tastes.  When  I was 
glad,  I’d  like  to  show  it,  and  when  I was  vexed. 
Sometimes,  I confess,  I’d  give  worlds  to  be  able 
to  wag  my  tail,  but  that  would  be  very  wrong. 
And  I was  often  choking,  for  I was  full  of  joy, 
and  I dared  not  bark.  However,  it  was  re- 
spectable, and  I was  content.  Since  I came 


Topsy  209 

into  the  bosom  of  your  family,  sir,  all  this  is 

changed.  There  is  no  respectability  here ” 

“ Topsy,  sir,”  said  I,  “ what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I am  sure,”  said 
Topsy ; “ but  I didn’t  mean  any  offence.  I 
meant  that  people  here  are  free  to  show  their 
feelings,  and  I was  not  slow  in  showing  mine. 
I ran  and  barked  at  my  own  pleasure.  I gave 
myself  up  to  my  impulses.  I became  familiar, 
and  I suffer  the  consequences.  Nobody  re- 
spects me.” 

“ I am  sure  I have  the  greatest  regard  for  you, 
Tops,”  said  I,  “ and  I know  the  boys  and  girls 
are  really  fond  of  you.” 

“ Ah,  there  it  is,”  said  Topsy;  “ they  may  be 
fond  of  me,  but  they  don’t  respect  me.  Imagine,” 
said  he,  waxing  very  angry,  “ imagine  the  impro- 
priety of  that  wretched  cook  who  flung  me  a 
huge  nasty  bone  the  other  day,  big  enough  for 
a mastiff,  me  who  was  daily  fed  on  chicken  and 
biscuit  and  sherry.  Then  your  wife,  sir  (I  speak 
of  course  with  all  deference),  never  allows  me 
to  enter  the  drawing-room  when  she  is  present, 
and  is  quite  alarmed  when  I romp  with  the 
children.  Your  boys,  too,  put  mustard  on 
bread,  and  even  whiskey,  pah ! and  compel  me 


210 


Topsy 

to  eat  it.  They  put  pepper  in  my  eyes  and 
fling  me  into  dirty  pools : me,  whose  coat  was 
daily  washed  with  perfumed  soap  and  eau-de- 
Cologne  : nay,  they  have  had  the  audacity  of 
striking  the  piano  with  my  paws  and  creating 
hideous  noises,  me,  who  have  listened  with  de- 
light to  the  sonatas  of  Mozart  and  Beethoven.” 

“ Topsy,”  said  I gravely,  “ Topsy,  isn’t  this 
a little  too  strong  ? ” 

“ Not  at  all,  sir,”  said  Topsy.  “ In  my  former 
place,  I always  attended  the  theatre,  particu- 
larly when  operas  and  high-class  music  were 
being  performed,  and  sat  with  my  paws  on  the 
velvet  cushions  of  the  boxes,  listening  with  de- 
light to  the  melody,  and  every  glass  in  the 
house  was  levelled  at  me.”  He  looked  quite 
proud  and  pleased  for  the  moment.  “ But  I 
could  stand  it  all,”  he  resumed  bitterly,  “ if  I 
were  not  perpetually  reminded  of  my  dependent 
and  degrading  position  by  that  person  upstairs 
whom  they  call  * The  Baby.’  One  would  think 
there  never  was  a baby  in  the  world  before. 
I’m  sure  I don’t  see  anything  remarkable  about 
the  Baby.  Until  she  came,  people  used  to  pet 
and  fondle  me.  Now  everybody  despises  me. 
Yet  she  has  no  hair ; and  look  at  me.  Her  eyes 


2 I I 


are  closed  half  the  day  and  all  the  night ; and 
look  at  mine.  She  screams  most  dreadfully.  In 
fact,  my  nerves  are  quite  disturbed.  And  she 
has  had  the  audacity  to  patronise  me,  and  call 
me,  ‘ Poo’  doddy  ! poo’  doddy  ! ’ I really  cannot 
stand  it  any  longer.”  And  Topsy  put  on  an 
air  of  offended  dignity  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a judge. 

“ Topsy,”  said  I quietly,  “ there  is  a great 
deal  in  what  you  say.  I certainly  must  check 
my  boys  for  treating  you  so  cruelly.  Boys  are 
thoughtless.  And  really,  I know,  Charlie  and 
Willy  are  very  fond  of  you.  I’ve  heard  them 
boast  of  your  beauty  and  accomplishments  to 
strangers,  and  in  fact  they  think  there’s  no 
dog  in  the  world  like  you.” 

Topsy  looked  quite  delighted,  but  he  had  not 
given  in. 

“ Then  you  know,”  I continued,  “ cook  does 
not  understand  your  history,  and  does  not  ap- 
preciate the  distinctions  you  have  made.  But 
as  to  Baby — I am  afraid,  Tops,  Baby  won’t 
trouble  any  of  us  much  longer.” 

“ What,  sir,”  said  Tops,  jumping  in  alarm  from 
his  seat,  “ is  Baby  going  away  ? ” 

“ She  is  very  sick,”  said  I quietly.  “ Doctor 


212 


Topsy 

Smith  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  he  and  I 
think  she  can  scarcely  live.  The  poor  litde 
thing  is  convulsed,  and  is  suffering  very  much 
pain.  And  we  were  all  so  fond  of  her.  And  I 
am  sure  she  was  fond  of  you,  Topsy.” 

Topsy  was  looking  intently  at  the  fire.  All  his 
discontent  and  defiance  had  passed  away.  He 
looked  at  first  alarmed,  then  ashamed,  then  as 
memory  brought  the  past  before  him,  he  be- 
came very  much  grieved,  until  I saw  a big  ball 
slowly  gathering  in  his  eyes,  and  then  rolling 
along  his  furred  cheek.  He  put  up  his  paw, 
and  secretly  wiped  it  away. 

I had  said  enough.  “ Good-night,  Topsy,”  I 
exclaimed,  as  I threw  the  end  of  my  cigar  into 
the  fire,  and  slowly  turned  down  the  lamp. 

“ Bow-wow ! ” said  Topsy  very  demurely,  as 
he  silently  left  the  room. 

Next  morning,  while  at  breakfast,  nurse 
came  in. 

“ How  is  Baby,  nurse  ? ” 

“ Very  much  better,  sir,”  said  nurse.  “ But 
that  dog ” 

“ What  about  Topsy  ? ” said  I,  remembering 
our  conversation  the  previous  evening. 

“ Why,  sir,”  said  she,  “ he  came  up  late  last 


Topsy  213 

night,  when  all  were  in  bed,  and  began  scratch- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  nursery.  I was  at  first 
alarmed,  but  I quietly  opened  the  door,  and  let 
him  in.  He  came  over,  and  looked  at  me  wist- 
fully, and  then  at  Baby,  and  then  lay  down 
and  began  whining  in  a low  tone,  and  whenever 
Baby  put  her  hand  outside  the  clothes,  he  licks 
her  hand  until  I stop  him,  and  I am  afraid  to 
remove  him,  and  the  doctor  is  coming.” 

“ Never  mind,  nurse,”  said  I ; “I  understand  ; 
let  him  alone.” 

Baby  got  well,  and  no  knight  of  old  was  ever 
so  attentive  to  “ faire  ladye  ” as  Topsy  is  to 
Baby.  He  sleeps  at  the  foot  of  her  cradle,  runs 
before  her  when  she  is  rolled  in  her  perambulator, 
plays  a thousand  tricks  to  amuse  her,  and 
thinks  “ poo’  doddy  ” the  greatest  compliment 
in  the  world. 

Like  many  whom  we  meet,  Topsy  had  had  a fit 
of  dignity,  and  he  was  miserable.  He  is  again 
himself,  and  is  happy. 


Printed  b.y  Ballantyne,  Hanson  dr*  Co. 
Edinburgh  dr*  London 


DATE  DUE 


/\i  in  | fi  ipr 

r 

Auu  l vj  jyt 

J DEC 

^ET002 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U S.  A. 

BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3 9031  01367563  2 


I 

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S'  3 77 


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